


Sin in Heaven

by WindySuspirations



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Blow Jobs, Couch Sex, Cullen Smut, Cullenlingus, Drug Addiction, Eventual Smut, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Modern Thedas, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roommates, Smoking, the smut has arrived
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindySuspirations/pseuds/WindySuspirations
Summary: Cullen Rutherford is an ex-Special Forces soldier just out of rehab for his lyrium addiction and struggling to pull his life back together. He finds a new place to live that's close to his new job, but there's just one problem: it comes with a captivatingly beautiful young female roommate who makes him burn day and night.He knows it's wrong to want her, he knows that nothing good can ever come of it, but it doesn't stop him from desiring her, not when she offers him such sweet heaven in her arms. Will he resist her or surrender to sin in heaven?1/24/19: **Major Update Incoming **





	1. One step at a time

**Author's Note:**

> Your eyes are not deceiving you: this is a repost of a fic I deleted in an epic moment of self-doubt. I hope you will forgive me and give this fic another chance. 
> 
> My thanks to [LarasLandLockedBlues](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LarasLandlockedBlues/pseuds/LarasLandlockedBlues) for encouraging me to write this fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and as always, comments and kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1/24/19
> 
> For most of last year, I was in a writing funk. It was not a particularly good year for me in that I've had some serious real life issues to deal with, some of which are still going on. 
> 
> However, recently I've felt a renewed push to write and share my Cullen stories. He remains my muse and regularly whispers to me that I should be writing about him.
> 
> So, what does that mean for this fic? Well, it is undergoing a major revamp. Don't worry, the basic story that you've been reading will stay the same, but there will be a few changes that I think will make everything make more sense and make it a better, more enjoyable story to read.
> 
> It is my hope that you will stick around to see what's in store for this fic. 
> 
> If any of you want to keep the original version, please download it now.
> 
> Thanks for reading and for your patience!

Cullen Rutherford sits outside of the clinic on one of the picnic tables, ashtray, phone, and a pad of paper in front of him. He scrolls through the PadMapper app on his phone,  taking a drag from his cigarette as he jots down possible leads on a room for rent.

Spreading his thumb and forefinger on the screen, he zooms in on the marker for a place in the University District.

_Hmm, this is promising_

He taps on marker icon to bring up the listing:

**_Room For Rent_ **

**_Room avail. In historic brownstone._ **

**_350 sovereigns per month, utils incl._ **

**_Text 770-997-8985 for info._ **

Although it’s in the University District, it is a short drive to the docks where he’ll be working for the foreseeable future. Rent is cheap, which is great for him, considering that his wages won’t be the greatest and the fact that he has to cover the costs of the monthly drug testing that are a condition of his employment. He quickly jots the number on his pad of paper and inputs the number into his phone one-handed. With his lips tucked around his cigarette, he quickly taps out a message:

_I saw your advert, and I am interested in having a look at your room for rent if it is still available. I am free anytime this week. What time is good for you?_

He sets his phone on the table and gets to his feet to stretch. He’s been at this for an hour, and his muscles are stiff from sitting hunched over for so long.

“Oi, Rutherford,” a voice calls from nearby.

“Hi, Sera,” he says, inwardly wincing. Sera is a nice enough girl if you can get past her often over-boisterous behavior and tendency to always be pulling a prank.  She works as part of the clinic’s cleaning staff, and over the six months that Cullen’s been an inpatient here, they’ve become sort of friends. The tallish elf climbs on top of the picnic table and plops herself down in the center, crossing her legs. She picks up his phone, squinting at it. Rolling his eyes at her antics, he lowers himself back down on the bench, taking another drag from his cigarette.

“University District? Why are you looking there?” She’s giving him a weird look like she can’t believe that he would ever step foot in such a place.

He pushes back the beanie covering his blond locks and sighs, taking the phone from her. “It’s close to work,” he tells her just as the phone beeps in his hand. He holds up a finger. ”Excuse me a minute,  I have to get this.”

A message pops up on his screen:

_Oh hai!_

_Itz avble still. Can u cme 2nite?_

Cullen blinks at his screen.  Oh hai? 2nite? His face scrunches in a frown, but he shakes his head and quickly taps out his reply:

_Hello:_

_What time should I come by?_

Not two seconds after he hits send, his phone dings with a new text:

_Cme @ 7. C U!_

He scratches behind his ear as he stares at the message. Growling under his breath,  he drums his fingers on the picnic table as he finishes his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray. He’s never cared for fucking chat-speak. It’s lazy, and such a person is likely to have other habits that will grate on his nerves. Guaranteed. But the rent is too cheap not to have a look. And it’s not like he has many options. He sighs, pockets his phone, and picking up the rest of his things, he stands and starts walking toward the clinic. Sera jumps off the table and falls into step beside him.

“So?”

He glances at her, lifting an eyebrow. “So what?”

She scoffs, slugging him in the arm.“Was that from that place over in the Uni district, Commander Uptight?”

“Hey!” he rubs at his arm, shooting her a glare, “and yeah, if you must know, it was,” he pulls open the door,  “I need a shower before I check out that room.”

She grins wide and toothy. “That’s good news, innit?”

Cullen shrugs and enters his room, tossing his beanie on the bed. She enters behind him and jumps on his back, fingers  sinking into his scalp and ruffling his hair.

“So stop looking like your dog just died, yeah!”

He chuckles and reaches behind him to tickle the sly elf. She starts squirming and the two end up on the floor, wrestling and laughing together.

 

* * *

 

He arrives at the apartment building with 15 minutes to spare and sits in his truck for a minute to collect himself. This is the first outside interaction he’s had since he checked himself into the clinic and it’s got his gut twisted in knots. He takes a last drag from his cigarette and puts it out in his truck’s ashtray.

_Relax, Rutherford. It’s not like you’ve never done this before._

Opening his door, he climbs out of the truck into the warm spring evening. The scent of jasmine is in the air, and he inhales it, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He looks around the neighborhood: old brick row houses nicely gentrified line the street, as do trees wreathed in new spring leaves. People walk along the sidewalks, mostly students heading to the coffee shop down the block or the campus just a few streets down.

When he first arrived in Kirkwall from Ferelden — Maker, have 15 years gone by? — this section of town was run-down and overrun with gangs and drug dealers. About three years ago, when Kirkwall University expanded, the city and the school pooled money into a joint fund to rehabilitate the area and make it a nice place for students to live close to campus. From what he can see, they did a good job. He straightens the sleeves of his white button –down and makes sure it’s properly tucked into his jeans before heading toward the building with the address on the ad.

Inside, he checks out the entryway: nice hardwood floors, spotless and well-cared for. There is a bank of mailboxes on the far wall, and an old mahogany staircase polished to a sheen starts winding its way to the upper floors along the left wall. He takes the stairs two at a time, climbing to the top floor. By the time he reaches the top landing, his heart is pounding with more than just the exertion of climbing all those steps. He pauses to catch his breath and have a look around the upper floor.

There are only three doors, so he’s guessing the flats must be fairly large. His brow furrows slightly. It’s a bit odd that the rent is so bloody low for such nice digs.  Checking his watch, he straightens to his full height and crosses to the door marked 4C. Cullen knocks on the door, and mere seconds later a diminutive girl answers it. His breath leaves him all over again as his eyes take her in: She has long, straight blond hair, huge cornflower blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and pert, upturned nose. She grins widely at him, revealing dimples in her cheeks and he’s struck dumb.

“Hi, hi!” she greets him airly, “come on in!” The girl bounces back on bare feet with pink toenails to let him in, her hair swinging around her like a flaxen cloak as she moves.

Cullen just stands there blinking for a minute while he tries to process what he’s seeing.

“Um, forgive me, miss, but  I seem to have the wrong apartment?” he checks the information on his phone, frowning down at it. It matches. What in the Void?

Her grin grows wider and her eyes sparkle. “ You’re the person who texted me about the room for rent, right? “

He nods, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This can’t be right. This — this girl — she looks no older than 20 at most. 

_What have you gotten yourself into now, Rutherford?_

Still, he finds himself following her inside the flat anyway. It’s spacious —  shiny hardwood floors, tall windows overlooking the street, and Orlesian doors opening onto a wide balcony with deck chairs and a table for enjoying the warmth of spring and the coming summer.

“So, the room is in through here” she twirls on the balls of her feet,  running fingers tipped in long pink nails through her hair as she dances down a short hallway, “this is it. My name is Brittany, by the way.”

He follows her inside a  small room with a window overlooking the alley between this building and the neighboring one. He crosses to the closet and peers inside, very aware of the differences in their sizes in this tiny space.  Maker’s breath, the top of her head barely clears his shoulder. Then he realizes that she introduced herself, but he didn’t respond.

_Shit, shit, shit!_

“Oh, forgive me — I am Cullen,” he nods his head toward her, “ I am pleased to meet you, Brittany. And this is a very nice place you have here.”

She just smiles, warmth radiating from her blue gaze. “Same. Don’t let me stop you from checking everything out.”

He looks around, but truthfully there isn’t that much to see as far as the room goes. It i _s_ small, but he doesn’t need a lot of space, having lived in a barracks environment for most of his life. It was only after he got promoted to Captain and then Commander that he’d gotten his own space, and even then, it was never what you’d call spacious. After he has a chance to look around at the rest of the flat —  there is a large bathroom with a garden-style tub and a separate shower with multiple shower heads — he follows her back to the main room where the rental contract lies on the high square table beside the open kitchen.

“So what do you think?” she turns to him and flashes a wide smile, those dimples appearing in her freckled cheeks. It reminds of him of the man he used to be, years ago, before joining the Order, of sunshine, warmth, and an endless blue sky.He pushes his beanie back on his head, considering. This girl. It won’t work. He’s a 36-year-old lyrium addict and she — Maker — she is like the first shoots of green that emerge from the snow in the spring. He should tell her no, and find another flat with a more appropriate roommate.  

He opens his mouth to tell her he won’t be taking the room, but instead, he grins down at her and says “when can I move in?”

“Thank you, thank you,” she squeals as she dances in a circle, clapping her hands excitedly. He stiffens as she embraces him tightly, then relaxes as her tiny body presses against him, the lush curves of her breasts brushing his chest. His hands grip her waist, and Maker, it’s so tiny, they nearly span its entire circumference.

He starts to press her closer when her girlish giggle reminds him of just how young she is, and he releases her, stepping back and clearing his throat. He scratches behind his ear. “Um, so would you be alright with me moving in on Saturday?”

This time when she smiles, he notices how she gets this cute little wrinkle in her nose. It drains the blood from his head and makes him a little lightheaded.

“Of course!” she plucks a key from a pocket in her dress and offers it to him, and as he takes it, he’s struck by how much larger his hand is compared to hers. He feels like a fucking giant next to her. “I just have these papers for you to sign,”  she makes a face as she steps up to the table and pushes the document toward him.

He looks it over; it’s just your standard rental agreement, so he signs it, and pulling his checkbook from his back pocket, he lays it on the table, picking up the pen. He raises an eyebrow and indicates the check. “Do I make this out to you?”

She pauses and clears her throat, her eyes darting from his checkbook back up to his eyes. “Um,” she twirls a lock of her hair. “Just leave it blank for now. You’d make it out to the building owner anyway, but for now, I can fill it out.”

“Okay,” he nods and fills out the amount for first and last months rent, plus the security deposit, signs it, tears it out of his checkbook and hands it to her. He offers her a smile. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then?”

Brittany brushes back her blond hair grins, her dimples appearing again. “See you on Saturday, Cullen,”  and the sound of his name in her soft, breathy voice makes his heart stutter.

_You’re in trouble, Rutherford. In so much trouble_


	2. Moving In

“Oi, Rutherford, today’s the day, eh?”

Cullen looks up from zipping shut his only suitcase to grin crookedly at the lanky elf standing in his doorway.  She leans against the doorjamb, hands in her pockets, carefully watching him.

He takes a deep breath and exhales. “Yeah.”

She crosses to where he stands beside his bed and puts a thin hand on his arm. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he lies. Right.  He’s been up since well before sunrise, his stomach in knots and his thoughts racing. Can he do this or is he kidding himself?

And of course, there is the ever-present itch for _it_ crawling under his skin. Would he ever be free of it? He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes deep, even breaths through his nose.

_You’ve got this, Rutherford. You’ve got this._

“Aw now, don’t go getting your shorts wound up over this,” she bumps him gently. “You’re done — you don’t need this place no more.”

He looks down at his friend. There is warmth and understanding in her eyes, and it makes his throat tighten.  Impulsively, he engulfs her slight body in a bear hug as grateful tears mist his eyes.

“I’ll miss your pranks, you little git,”  he gives her a squeeze as he sets her back on her feet.

“Did’ya have to do that, ya jackboot?” she waves him off, but her voice trembles slightly. “Go on with ya now, get outta here!”

He swallows hard and picks up his suitcase and walks to the door. Looking back over his shoulder at his friend, he shoots her a crooked grin.”See you around.”

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning traffic is light as he drives through the city, a cigarette between his lips. He’s got the window open to let the fresh dew-scented air into the cab. As he navigates the streets,  he hums to the music playing on the radio. He didn’t get her last name — Maker’s breath, he was so entranced by her beauty. Why is he doing this again?  And, why in the Void is she so accepting of a man more than a decade her senior as a living companion? It makes no sense. And Cullen likes everything in his world to make sense as much as possible.When things don’t make sense, there’s always trouble, a lesson he’s learned the hard way.

Cullen pulls to a stop at an intersection and flicks some ash from his smoke through the open window, finger tapping on the steering wheel as he waits for the light to change. He glances at the clock on his dashboard: 8:30 am. Plenty of time for him to grab what little furnishings he has from his storage unit, settle the bill, and head to the flat.

Of course, with his luck,  his day turns pear-shaped pretty quickly, and he doesn’t actually arrive at his new living arrangement until the afternoon.  He still can’t believe the damn storage people changed the locks on his unit and didn’t see fit to tell him. Worse,  they lost the new keys, so he had to wait for a sodding locksmith to come out.

He parks in the lot behind the building in his designated spot and climbs out of his truck, stretching limbs grown stiff with tension. Grabbing his suitcase, he decides to carry up some of the lighter things before tackling the heavy stuff. The sound of music permeates the closed door of his new flat as he approaches it.  It’s the kind of pop drivel that makes him cringe. And it’s pretty damned loud for him to be hearing it out here. He raps his knuckles on the door once, twice, three times, but there is no answer, so he tests the doorknob, and it turns easily in his hand.

The music blasts into his ears the second he opens the door, and he has to clap his free hand around an ear, the headache thrumming in his brain threatening to worsen. “Hello,” he yells toward the group of young people sitting in the front room. Two young men sit in front of a large flat-screen television and are engaged in playing some kind of first-person shooter game, while a pair of girls sit at the high square dining table putting together a puzzle.

“Hai, Cullen!” calls Brittany from the kitchen and his name coming from her lips cuts through the cacophony around him. She reaches for her phone on the kitchen counter and taps something, turning down the volume to a thankfully manageable level. “Do you need help with your things?  Jackson and Will can help.”

“Yeah, man,” says a tall, lanky kid with shaggy red hair. He sets down his video game controller and stands. “Just say the word.” The other guy has brown hair and glasses and looks up at him expectantly.

Cullen scratches behind his ear. “I —um — I don’t have much. So perhaps just some help with the bed — that’s more awkward than anything else.”

Brittany smiles and his fucking stomach flutters. “Come on, girls,” she tells the two other girls. “Let’s make some lemonade for the boys for when they get back.”

Jackson, the redhead, puts a hand on Cullen’s shoulder, making him tense. “Let’s go get your things, hey dude?”

He turns and draws away, hoping the younger man doesn’t feel him flinch. “The name is Cullen, “ he grits out. “My truck’s in the parking lot. Let’s go.” He slides into the role of leader without hesitation, and although the two younger men share a confused glance, both of them follow him out without debate.

Back in the flat, Cullen looks at his things sitting in his new space and sighs. Now he has to put the frame together — the bed will take up most of the room because the one thing he ever splurged on himself was a king-size bed with a decent mattress and bed frame. He’s spent too many years sleeping in government issue bunks that make his back hurt, more so the older he gets. A sound from the hallway draws his attention to the door. Brittany stands in the open doorway, a glass of lemonade in her hands. Dimples appear on her cheeks as she smiles and the fluttering is back in his stomach.

“Did you need something?” he asks, lifting an inquiring brow.

“I — um — well, me and the girls made some lemonade for you guys. I thought you might like a glass?” she crosses the room and offers him a frosty glass of the tart liquid.

As he reaches out to take it, their fingers brush against each other, and  Maker help him, her skin is oh so soft. What would her hands feel like on his overheated skin? The thought of her touching him goes straight to his cock, warmth blooming low and heavy in his gut.

“Thank you,” he manages in an even tone despite the thrum of his blood in his ears.  Maker, she’s standing so close. He can smell the scent of her shampoo — strawberry — and up close, her eyes are a mix of deep sapphire blue with a hint of aqua closer to the iris, rimmed in black. He wants to lean in and capture her pink lips with his.Wants to feel the healthy swells of her breasts outlined to perfection by the tight halter top she wears against him. Before he can act on any of his ridiculous and inappropriate thoughts, she steps away, and the loss of her nearness makes his heart hurt.

“Well, Cullen, “ she says when she reaches his doorway, looking over her shoulder at him standing frozen in the middle of his bedroom. “There’s more in the fridge, and,” she flips her hair back and gives him a saucy wink. “ you are more than welcome to join my friends and me if you want.” Then she vanishes through the doorway, and all he can do is listen to her fading footsteps as she pads down the hallway back to the main room.

He sinks down on one of his boxes and takes a sip of his drink, the lemonade soothing his thirst. Pressing the frosty glass to his sweaty forehead and closes his eyes and groans.

_Rutherford, you’re completely fucked._

He spends the rest of the afternoon putting his bed together and unpacking his things. Not that he has much, but he manages to fit everything in his small space, and with every item he places, it starts to feel more like home to him. His small bookshelf goes in one corner and on top of it, he places his portable chess set, lovingly fingering the box as he does so. It is his most cherished possession, having traveled with him from Ferelden to Kirkwall, a gift from his father upon his completion of Templar training. A fond smile curves his lips. Maker, how proud of him his father had been.  The ache in his chest starts and his vision blurs with unshed tears. Thank the Maker his father isn’t alive to see what has become of his oldest son.

Cullen rolls his shoulders to ease the built-up tension and sighs, running a hand through his hair.A shower is in order before he heads out to get groceries, so he undresses quickly, and grabbing a towel, slings it around his waist for the short walk to the bathroom. The shower is fucking heaven. Its multiple jets hit every part of his body, soothing the aches of his long day and the exertions of moving. He stands still, turning his face up into the spray of water and trying to empty his mind of all thought. Of course, it’s useless. Brittany. Her smile, her sparkling eyes, Maker, everything about her inflames his desires. He smashes his fist against the shower wall, wincing.

No. Absolutely not.

There are at least a million reasons why he cannot allow himself to want her. Yet, he can’t make his body obey his commands, can’t stop responding to her. He soaps his chest, suds clinging to the mat of hair there, rivulets of water dancing over his flat, defined abs. What can he do about this? He pours some shampoo into his palm and starts scrubbing his blond curls. He can’t change his mind now and move out — he signed a rental agreement good for a year, after all, and even if could get out of it, he’d never find a deal as sweet as this.He grimaces as he turns his head into the spray to rinse his hair. And his bank account doesn’t have much give in it these days. So, back to square one: how does he live with her without making an arse of himself?

He sighs and shuts the water off, stepping out of the shower. He’s getting ahead of himself; for anything to happen between them, she’d have to want him, too, and there’s entirely no chance of that. She’s already got those two boys sniffing after her. He quickly dries himself and then wraps the towel loosely around his hips. She won’t want an old fuck-up like him when she can have her pick of men — boys — closer to her age and without his baggage. So, it’ll be fine. He’s a grown man — he can control himself.

Opening the door, he steps into the hallway, his mind already working on the list of things he needs to pick up from the grocery store.

“C-Cullen?”

The sound of his name stops him dead in his tracks. He snaps his gaze up to stare into a pair of startled blue eyes.

Oh, shit.


	3. I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rosegarden

Cullen rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks blazing, aware of Brittany’s  eyes on his nearly naked body.

“I —uh —I’m —“ he starts to stutter out an apology for startling her, but her giggle stops him. Maker, she looks so cute with her hand covering her mouth, blue eyes huge in her face.  He wants to tug her hand away from her mouth and stifle her laughter with his lips.

He starts to lean toward her, but before he can say or do anything else, she whirls around and takes off down the hall in a cloud of blond hair, the scent of strawberries, and fits of giggles.

_Maker’s breath!_

He sighs and pads back to his room.  Inside, he drops the towel and digs around in his boxes for some clean clothes to wear. Has he frightened her?  But that would be ridiculous — the girl had to know that living with a man would lead to such encounters at some point.

He shakes his head and slips into an old hoody, zipping it closed partway, and tugs on some jeans. Dragging a hand through is wet curls in disgust, he jams a beanie over it and grabs his keys, cigarettes, lighter, wallet, and strides out the door.

Groceries now. He’ll think about this later.

 

* * *

 

Cullen collapses into bed later that night exhausted by his eventful day. Throwing an arm across his eyes, he lets his thoughts drift. Predictably, they fall on twinkling blue eyes, freckles, and the sweetest dimples he’s ever seen.

And even though he has exactly zero chance of it actually happening, he drifts off to sleep thinking about kissing her.

It’s sometime later that Cullen wakes in a cold sweat with a scream in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. He sits up, and his wild eyes flit around the room, landing on his bookshelf, chess set, the boxes of his clothes, and finally the window where pale moonlight streams through the sheer curtains. He exhales in relief as his mind finally orients itself.

_Thank the Maker, I’m in my room —_

_— not on a ship —_

_It’s in the past. Over._

He lets himself fall back into his pillows, yawning, but the second he closes his eyes, images flash before his eyelids of flashing emergency lights against white bulkheads and the screams of his trapped squad echo in his ears.

He growls and turns over, jamming a pillow over his head, trying to silence the screams, obliterate the nauseating flashes. Void, it has been weeks since he’d had a nightmare this bad. He’d thought he’d finally rid himself of them.

Right, then. So much for that hope.

Then, of course, lucky him,  the itch starts. The need for _it_ crawls up his spine and into his brain. It makes his skin crawl.  

Fuck

He tosses his pillow aside and gets out bed, muttering to himself.  Will he ever be free of any part of this? He groans and finds a pair of sweats to throw over his nakedness. Maybe a smoke would help. Grabbing his pack and lighter, he pads out into the dark hallway.

The flat it still and quiet, the main room lit only by the moonlight coming through the large windows and the Orlesian doors. As softly as a big man like him can walk, he makes his way to the Orlesian doors and out onto the balcony.

Taking a seat on one of the chairs by the railing, Cullen sighs and tucks a cigarette between his lips, bringing his lighter to the tip and flicking it until the flame catches. Puffing on it, he tosses his lighter on the table beside him and leans back to look up into the starry sky.

Rubbing his face,  he tries to empty his mind, to ignore the fingers of need tugging on him. A soft step behind him alerts him that he’s no longer alone. He turns his head to see Brittany step out of the flat. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and takes a seat across from him, her eyes shimmering like sapphires in the moonlight.

“Hi,” her voice is soft and delicate, just like her. It mends the torn pieces of his heart. “I-I heard you get up and I —“

“Did I wake you?” he interrupts, then sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maker’s breath, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, no, you didn’t. I was just, like, chatting with some friends on  SnapChat, and I heard you so — I – I thought you might like some company?”

Cullen relaxes for the first time since waking up, and his mouth twitches as he turns to give her his full attention. She’s dressed in a thin white camisole and shorts, her long tan legs curled under her.

Maker, she almost _glows_ , and he can’t fucking take his eyes off her.

“If I am not keeping you up.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and flicks his ashes over the railing. He gestures with the hand holding the smoke. “I hope you don’t mind — I’ll — um —not smoke in the flat.”

She smiles, and her teeth flash in the darkness. “It’s okay,” she shrugs, peering at him through her lashes, “I don’t mind at all. And, like, you can smoke inside.”

He lifts a blond brow. “I – um – that is, thank you,  but I think I’ll keep the smoking outside for now.” He takes another drag and blows out a lungful of smoke up into the air.

“Can you blow smoke rings?”

He laughs, and all his tension suddenly fades away; the cravings no longer feel like they’re going to eat him alive and even his head hurts a little less.

“Of course,” he tells her and proceeds to demonstrate by blowing a series of perfect O’s up into the moon-limned midnight sky.

  

* * *

 

Cullen leans against the corrugated metal wall of the Harel Shipping Company smoking a cigarette as he waits for the building to open. He sighs and shifts the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder, blowing smoke into the fog that blankets the docks adjacent to the building’s parking lot and the Waking Sea beyond.

He dreads first days, always has, even when he was a school lad. It’s the uncertainty that comes with meeting new people and confronting novel situations that sits ill in his stomach. He pushes his beanie forward on his head and raises one foot to rest on the wall behind him.

This time he has the added pressure of his addiction, both the withdrawal aches in his body and having to deal with the certain negative reactions he’ll receive from his new boss, and possibly his co-workers. And let’s not forget the cravings for lyrium that make him itch from head to toe, 24 hours a day.

Cullen finishes his cigarette, tosses the butt in the nearby trashcan and quickly lights another, cupping his hand around it as he touches the tip with the flame from his lighter. He’s surprised his hands aren’t shaking more than they are.

He closes his eyes, the tension knotting up his neck and shoulders.

_Think about something else._

His mind drifts to _her,_ and immediately his shoulders relax a little, and the pressure in his head lightens. A grin tugs at his lips as he remembers how she sat with him on Saturday night, her presence more of a quiet comfort that he would have thought possible.

“You the new guy?” a gravelly voice makes Cullen look up to see a beardless dwarf approaching him.

The shorter man appears to be a few years older than him, with strawberry blond hair gathered into a stubby ponytail at the back of his head and dressed in gray slacks and a red shirt that hung open across the middle of his chest, displaying an impressive amount of chest hair.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Varric Tethras, shift supervisor,” the dwarf tells him and offers a hand for Cullen to shake.

 “Cullen Rutherford,” he says as he takes it and gives it a quick pump. The other man’s handshake is firm and decisive.

Varric smiles and pulls out a key ring, quickly selecting the proper key and inserting it into the lock on the door. “Ah, you’re the ex-Templar from the clinic, right?”

Cullen clears his throat against its sudden dryness. “I —uh — I, yes.”

He enters and holds open the door for Cullen in, saying, “Yeah, there’s no smoking in the building, so you’ll wanna put that out. I’ll show you to the Human Resources manager’s office. She’s not in yet, but you can wait for her there.”

Swiftly, Cullen puts his cigarette out and follows Varric through the door. As good as his word, he shows him a white-walled waiting room with avocado-green chairs arranged around its walls and desk beside large twin doors that no doubt led to the HR manager's office.

“Her secretary should be in soon, and Leliana should follow shortly. Help yourself to some coffee, “Varric indicates the coffee machine up against the far wall, “ I’ll see you on the floor once you get done here, and you can meet the rest of the boys.”

After Varric leaves him alone in the waiting area, Cullen takes a seat, tugging his messenger bag off his shoulder and setting it on the chair beside him. He stretches his legs out, leans back, and closes his eyes. The fluorescent lighting is making his head hurt.

The sound of someone clearing their throat pulls him from his half-doze, and he abruptly sits up, eyes flying open to see a tall redheaded woman standing in front of him dressed in an impeccable black skirt and jacket ensemble with a crisp, white blouse underneath.

“Mr. Rutherford, I presume,” her Orlesian-accented voice is as chilly as her winter-blue eyes as she looks him over.

Cullen clears his throat and stands, his cheeks hot and sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I — yes, I am Cullen.” He offers her his hand, which she takes in a tepid shake before turning away to walk toward her office.

“This way, if you please, Mr. Rutherford, we have much to get through before you begin work.”

He fidgets with his shirt, picks up his bag, and follows the redhead into her office.

Inside her office,  the woman slides behind her desk smoothly and waves a slim hand to one of the two chairs in front of it.  When he hesitates, she arches one impeccably groomed eyebrow at him, and he quickly sits, folding his hands in his lap.

“Now then, Mr. Rutherford,” she begins, tapping on her keyboard with one manicured fingernail, “I understand that you were discharged from the Templar Order for lyrium abuse, is that correct?” 

He tightens his jaw and doesn’t look away from her eyes as he answers. “Yes. ma’am that is correct.”

She watches him with keen eyes that miss nothing, and it’s all he can do not to flinch. He knows her type; he’s dealt with them before, and they always make him feel a bit wanting.  And he hates it. Aware that his fingers are clenched too tight, he forcibly relaxes them.

The redhead — Leliana du Carre, according to the nameplate on her desk turns away from her computer to reach into a drawer in the filing cabinet behind her.

“We have some paperwork you need to fill out — the usual tax forms and the like.” She rifles through some file folders, pulls out several forms, and puts them on the desk in front of her. Plucking a pen from a pen holder, she sets it on top of the forms and pushes them toward him.

“Alright,” he starts to reach over to draw them closer to him, but she doesn’t remove her hand. He raises his brows questioningly.

“You know we require you to submit urine bi-weekly for drug testing, correct?”

Cullen frowns. “I was told it was once a month.”

She bares her teeth at him in a smile that does not reach her eyes. “Mr. Rutherford, I do not know who gave you that information, but it is was incorrect. Will this be a problem for you?”

“I —ah —no, no, that’s fine, Ms. du Carre.”

“Good. You may fill out that paperwork out in the waiting area — let me see — oh here it is,” she offers him a clipboard, “hand these to my secretary when you’re done and then, you may go see Mr. Tethras on the shipment floor to be assigned to your station.”

He nods his head mutely and allows Ms. du Carre to escort him back to the waiting room. Maker, bi-weekly drug testing! He doesn’t want to think about how much more it will cost him than he had calculated when he’d thought he’d have to do it only once a month.

Thank the Maker for his cheap rent, else he’d have been in a real pinch. As it is, he’s going to be eating a fair bit more ramen noodles for his meals with this new development.

Cullen sighs and sits down in the waiting area to fill out the required forms.

 

* * *

 

“Rutherford, over here,” calls the dwarf he met earlier from a metal platform in the middle of the huge warehouse floor.

As he climbs the short flight of steps to the top, he sees that there are three other men there as well: a hulking Qunari wearing an eyepatch, a young man with short, dark hair and another with shaggy blond hair.

“You’re just in time to meet your teammates — well most of them — when’s Sammy due in?” Tethras looks to the Qunari who shrugs his huge shoulders.

“No idea, boss. Maybe after lunch?”

The short man nods and turns to Cullen. “You’ll meet him later. Anyway, this is Bull, “ he indicates the Qunari who nods and throws him a peace sign, “Krem,” he gestures at the dark-haired man, “and finally, Cole,” he points to the young blond. “Fellas, this is Cullen Rutherford.”

Cullen nods at each man in turn and reaches out to shake each of their hands and then takes a place beside them to listen to the rest of what Tethras has to say as he explains what they will be doing that day.

By the time lunch rolls around at noon, Cullen is feeling the day’s labor in his joints, and his head is throbbing. He makes his excuses to his teammates and heads outside,  hoping that some time away from the heavy fluorescent lighting and a smoke will help.

Finding a bench in front of the building, he plops himself down on it and leans his back against the warm metal siding. He shuts his eyes and turns his face up toward the sun which had burned through the morning fog and risen high in the cerulean sky.

Afer a few minutes of just sitting there, he sighs and opens his bag. Ignoring the sandwich he had packed for himself that morning, he fishes out his pack of cigarettes and extracts one, then finds his lighter. Leaning back against the wall once more, he lights his cigarette and inhales a lungful of smoke, exhaling it with another deep sigh. He closes his eyes again and rests, every so often taking a pull from his smoke.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” says a voice Cullen never expected to hear again.

“Samson,” he flicks his cigarette and squints up at the other man, “What are you doing here?”

Samson chuckles mirthlessly, his longish dark hair blowing off his forehead in the breeze. “Same thing as you, apparently.”

“What?” he flicks his cigarette again and lifts it to his mouth for a puff, ‘taking a smoke break?”

“Yeah, very funny, Rutherford. You never did have much of a sense of humor. Too much of a tight-ass, always so concerned about appearances. “  he snorts another derisive laugh. “What did that get you now, Golden Boy?”

Cullen sighs. “Is that really all you’ve got?” he flexes and straightens one knee, raising his cigarette to his lips for another hit. When nothing happens, he frowns at the unlit end.

_Shit._

He fumbles with his lighter under the other man’s cold stare. It sparks once, twice, three times, but no flame comes out.

“You’re not worth my best, _Golden Boy,”_ Samson starts to walk past him, but then stops, spits on the ground near Cullen’s feet and scoffs You’re pathetic, mate, and the worst thing is you don’t even realize it.”

Cullen watches the other man enter the building, then knocks his head back against the wall behind him, welcoming the pain that blossoms in the back of his head.


	4. Untenable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is so fun to write. I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, kudos are appreciated, too!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments already; you guys rock and encourage me to keep writing!

The sound of loud music greets him as he climbs the last set of stairs to the 4th  floor.

Fuck.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Just what he needs after his bloody rotten day.

Inside the flat, it’s even worse; the horrible synth beat blaring from the hidden speakers melds with the sound of simulated gunfire coming from the television where the same boys from the day he moved in are playing a game. Brittany sits in between them and giggles.

“Jackson, you’re going to crash! Didn’t you say you were good at this game?”

Jackson scoffs and elbows her “I am, “ he insists, puffing up his chest. “Will’s cheating. Tell him to stop.”

“Am not,” the other boy retorts. “You just suck at this.”

It’s then that Brittany notices him standing by the door. She smiles at him, and her dimples appear, her blue eyes warm and dancing with good humor.

“Hai, Cullen.  How was your first day at work?”

Carefully drawing in a deep breath, he shuts his eyes and counts to ten, his jaw clenched tight. It would not do to snap at her; she doesn’t deserve that from him.  He offers her a clipped nod before he makes his way to his bedroom.

Inside, he leans on his door, his body trembling. Maker, why did he think he could live here? Why did he think he could even do this? His mouth is dry and his skin itches, the craving for lyrium searing him from the inside out.

_Keep it together, man. Keep it together._

He steps away from the door and starts pulling off his shirt and pants, tossing the dirty clothes into one corner of the room. The air is blessedly cool on his overheated skin, so he stands there in his underwear for a few minutes, just breathing in and out.

After a few moments, he crosses to his stack of boxes and pulls out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.  He needs a smoke. Come to that, a beer would not go amiss, either. But to do that, he needs the balcony — and that means facing Brittany and her young men once again. He sighs. Although Brittany told him she’s fine with him smoking in the flat, he’s not so sanguine about the landlord feeling the same way.

Snatching his cigarettes and lighter, he enters the hallway and winces as the loud music assaults his ears full-force again. In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and frowns. Didn’t he just buy a full six-pack? Two are already gone. He rubs his forehead. Maker, this music is making his headache worse.

As he leaves the kitchen and pads to the couch, he notices the two beer bottles sitting on the coffee table. He lifts an eyebrow, but says nothing, opting instead to get straight to the point.

“Please, I must ask you to turn down the stereo — I’m afraid I have a bit of a headache, and it’s not helping.”

Brittany jumps up at his gruff demand, cheeks pinking, and he closes his eyes briefly, immediately regretting his tone.

“Oh, of course!” she zips around him, and he turns to see her grab her phone off the counter. A few taps of her finger on the screen reduces the volume immediately, just as it had on Saturday. She tucks her hair behind her ears and looks at him with contrite blue eyes. “Maker, I am so sorry, Cullen! Can I, like, get you some elfroot tablets?”

Something inside his chest loosens, and despite his headache and his horrid, awful day, the corners of his mouth twitch up into a small smile. “Thank you, Brittany. I appreciate your kindness. I — I’m going to sit out here and relax. I’m sorry to interrupt your gathering.”

He turns to nod at the two boys who are looking at him with stunned expressions on their faces and heads for the balcony. He hopes that Brittany is not too offended, but Maker, the beat of that music made him feel as though someone was pounding shards of glass through his brain. Those two lads, however, are clueless if they’d rather pretend to shoot things than woo their lovely friend.

Sinking into one of the chairs with a long sigh, he drops his lighter and cigarette pack on the table and pops open his beer. He takes a long swallow and presses its cold surface to his forehead.

Samson.

How in the Void did he end up working in the same place as Raleigh Samson? And he has to see him every bloody day. Work with him.

And if today was anything to go by, Sammy wasn’t about to make it easy for him. Not that there would ever be any chance of that with their history.

It’s pure bloody madness.

Setting down his beer, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking several quick puffs. Leaning his elbows on the table and dropping his head into his hands, Cullen threads his fingers through his hair and heaves another discontented sigh.

Golden Boy, Samson had called him. A memory swirls in his head, distant yet as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

_Cullen looks up from his work as his office door swings violently inward._

_“You bastard,” Samson barges in and slams his fists against the top of Cullen’s desk. His eyes are wild, and his uniform is askew. “You didn’t tell them — you let them think — “ his voice breaks on an angry sob.”And for what? “ his fingers thwack on the shiny new nameplate on his desk. “A promotion? I knew you were ambitious, Golden Boy, but I never figured you’d sell out our own.”_

_The color drains out of Cullen’s face. He’d known he’d have to face the other man sometime, just not this soon._

_“Sammy — I didn’t — I didn’t tell them anything.”_

_The other man sneers. “That’s the problem, Golden Boy, you didn’t speak up. But mark my words, lad, they’ll come for you too, eventually. You know this system is sick!”_

_The blond man looks away and adjusts his jacket, unable to face the accusation in the other’s eyes._

_“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t know what you are talking about.”_

_“Of course, you don’t. You’re always so careful, aren’t you?” Samson knocks his nameplate to the floor. “You had a chance — to make a difference, but you’d rather sit here in your cozy office and act high and mighty. Well, your time will come, Golden Boy, and when it does, I’m gonna laugh in your face!”_

“Hey, dude,” a voice pulls him out of his head. He drops his hands and notices one of Brittany’s friends sitting across the table from him, a concerned frown on his freckled face.  “Your — uh — cig is almost burnt out.”

He glances down at his hand, and sure enough,  a long string of ash hangs off the tip of his smoke he’s loosely holding. His cheeks flush slightly.

Damn.

“Oh, um, thank you,” he says, flicking the ashes away and taking one drag before stubbing it out and pulling out another.

“Are you okay, bro? You were kind of spaced out there.”

“I’m fine.” Cullen rolls his eyes and sighs, looking at the younger man pointedly, “I’m Just relaxing — alone. Do you mind?”

“Uh sure, sorry. You just looked kinda lost there —“

“Please do not concern yourself with me, _bro_ ,” he smiles tightly, his brows lowering over his eyes menancingly, “and next time, ask before you take anything of mine, understood?”

“Uh, yeah — sorry about the beer, man,” the redheaded kid stammers out, but Cullen is beyond caring. His head pounds from the blood rushing into it and his chest is so tight he can hardly breathe. All he knows is he needs to get somewhere where he can be alone — where no one can see him lose it.

He rises to his feet and stabs out his cigarette with more force than is necessary before turning and stalking back into the flat. He ignores the curious stares of Brittany and the other bloke as he storms to his room, slamming the door behind him, the sound echoing throughout the flat.

Throwing himself on his bed, he drags his pillow and stuffs it over his head.

Damn it damn it damn it.

  

* * *

 

Hours later, a soft knock rouses him from his stupor. He pushes himself up into a kneeling position on the bed, clutching his pillow to his stomach as his eyes flit around his dark room. A glance at his bedside clock tells him that it's just after 11.

Maker, what happened?

Rubbing his head, he vaguely remembers coming in here but not falling asleep. His mind is muddy with sleep; he almost feels hungover, even though he doesn’t think he got drunk?

The knock sounds again and his entire day crashes back in on him – his first day on the job — the meeting with that HR woman – Samson — coming home to loud music — everything.

Maker’s breath, he’d made a fool of himself, hadn’t he?

He groans and drags a hand down his face, his cheeks hot with mortification.

“Just a minute,” he calls, rising to stand on wobbly legs, his earlier headache settling over his left eyebrow. He groans again. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

“Hi,” Brittany greets him when he opens his door. She’s holding a plate of — he squints down at it — cookies? “I baked them fresh as a peace offering.” She gives him a rueful smile, and tilts her head to the side, sending her blond tresses spilling over one bare shoulder save for the thin straps of her camisole. 

“A peace offering?” he questions, unable to keep his eyes from straying to the abundant cleavage above where she is cradling the plate of cookies against her ample chest.

His heart starts beating faster, and he wants, Maker damn him, he wants to slide his fingers underneath the thin fabric of her top and cup her beautiful breasts. They would be so soft, yet firm under his rough hands. Inside his sweats, his cock twitches.

Damn it. No.

“Yeah, for earlier. I’m sorry about the guys and the loud music,” she looks away, her pink lips forming a little pout. “I should have been more considerate. Especially after your first day at work and all.”

“Oh, please, no, love, don’t apologize,” the endearment slips out before he can stop it, but she doesn’t appear offended, and it feels right, so he continues, “I behaved abominably toward you and your friends. I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she breathes, her eyes falling to where his sweats have ridden low on his hips, exposing a thin strip of skin between the waistband and the bottom of his t-shirt. She offers him the plate again. “Cookie? I really did bake them myself.”

“Did you?” he smirks and raises an eyebrow as he takes a cookie. It’s gooey and warm from the oven, and when he bites into it, the chocolatey flavor bursts in his mouth.”Mmm, this is good. Thanks.”

 “Thank you, and you’re welcome. Um, you have uh —” she leans up to gently wipe her finger across the corner of his mouth, her breasts brushing against his chest. He has to fight the urge to take it into his mouth and suck on it. “A bit of chocolate there.”

Their eyes meet and time stops. He’s aware of nothing except for how her breasts felt against him just now, how huge her pupils have gotten, and the sound of their breathing in the still flat.

They both lean in slowly toward each other, lips parting in anticipation when a beeping sound from the kitchen breaks the spell.

‘Oh!’ she gasps and steps back, the freckles on her cheeks standing out as she blushes.”I must have left the oven on. Excuse me.”  She gives him a small, nervous smile that makes his stomach flip and patters down the hall.

Cullen shuts the door and rests his forehead against it, willing his heart to stop racing. He sighs and turns back to his bed, undressing quickly in the dark. He had to be reading her wrong; she couldn’t want him to kiss her, could she?

Maker help him, it’s impossible.

But as he settles into bed, the question replays in his mind, and he falls asleep to visions of her soft, willing pink lips, parted and waiting for his tongue.


	5. Going nowhere places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I am going to get faster at updating one of these days. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reads, comments, and kudoses this fic. It means a lot to me — more than words can say!

“Rutherford!”

Cullen sets down the crate he is moving and stands, arms crossed over his chest as he regards Samson warily. The other man is indolently leaning on the crates Cullen has been stacking since he arrived at work earlier.

“What is it?” he asks, already dreading the answer.

Samson grins, showing too many teeth and  Cullen’s stomach tightens. “You’re wanted up in Ms. Du Carre’s office right away, Golden Boy.”

He resists asking Samson why; that would be just what the bastard wanted and he won’t give him that. Instead, Cullen nods stiffly and tosses his work gloves on one of the crates. As he passes Samson, the other man deliberately butts shoulders with him.

“Hey, you’d best hoof it up there. Ms. Du Carre don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Shoulders stiff, Cullen stops and takes a deep breath. He turns his head and glares at the other man before continuing on his way.

 

* * *

 

“Go right in, Mr. Rutherford,” Elaine, Ms. Du Carre’s secretary instructs him as he enters the waiting area,” she is expecting you.”

He nods at the woman and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. She has most certainly not called him up here to congratulate him on what a fine job he is doing. No. Samson would not be grinning like the cat that got the canary unless things are about to go pear-shaped for him. Maker, he should have grabbed a quick smoke before coming up here; it would have calmed his nerves.

Steeling himself, he opens the door, his heartbeat racing. Inside the office, there is a man dressed in scrubs with a box of medical-looking supplies. Ms. Du Carre is seated at her desk, as unflappable as ever.

He eyes them both questioningly, and then it clicks, even before Ms. Du Carre opens her painted-red lips.

Shit.

“Mr. Rutherford, we’re so glad you could join us,” she says coolly, “please have a seat,”

Swallowing, he takes the only chair available beside the medical man. He does a quick calculation of his bank balance and winces. Her icy eyes take him in but reveal nothing of her thoughts. What had Samson told her? 

“Might I ask why you have summoned me here?” It’s impossible for him to keep the edge out of his voice and it causes Ms. Du Carre to arch one perfectly sculpted red eyebrow.

“Are we keeping you from something important, Mr. Rutherford?” She clasps her hands together and rests them on the desk in front of her while she waits for an answer.

His eyebrows pinch together, and he fights to keep his annoyed sigh in his throat. Maker’s breath, but this woman is buggering him about.

“I — I was just asking, ma'am. I mean no disrespect.” Cullen crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well. Now that you are here, we can proceed. Mr. Anders is here to administer a spot drug test. The cost will be deducted from your next pay.”

This time, Cullen does sigh, but he offers his arm to the lanky man seated beside him. He keeps his eyes averted through the entire process, his jaw clenched tightly.

Bloody Samson. His first check is going to amount to naught but a few coppers at this rate. It’s damned ridiculous, this.

“Ms. Du Carre, I — I apologize if this seems impertinent, but I must ask: is there a reason you require me to submit to all of these drug tests?“

She rises from her chair and leans across her desk, an unkind smile curving her lips. “Because you, Ser, are a lyrium addict, and it is my job to protect this company from the folly of hiring you in the first place.”

Cullen winces. Fuck. Samson must have told her. Of course, he had. He presses on cursing himself for not holding his tongue.

“But have I done anything to make you suspect me of using?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks down her patrician nose at him. “I don’t need to, Mr. Rutherford. Random drug testing is also a condition of your employment. Have you forgotten?”

He drops her stare. He wants to say no, that’s not true, but he’s sure that would get him fired. His stomach twisting bitterly, he bites his tongue and gets to his feet.

“If that is all,” he says, “I should return to my duties.”

“We’ll be doing this again soon, Mr. Rutherford. See you then.”

 

* * *

 

The scent of roasted meat and potatoes greets him as he walks into the flat that evening. It smells heavenly, but his stomach is churning, and his head is throbbing. Luckily, there is no blaring music, just the sounds of humming coming from the kitchen where Brittany is dancing around as she cooks.

He stands just inside the door for a moment, drinking her in as her long blond ponytail swishes back and forth with her every movement. If he had more energy, he might join her in the kitchen and offer his help, but as it is, all he wants to do is have a smoke and go to bed.

“What’s all this?” he asks, not sure he is going to like the answer. Maker, please let her not have invited her ridiculous friends for supper. He can’t bear that. Not tonight.

“Hai, Cullen!” she calls to him, her brilliant smile making her dimples appear, and in spite of himself, an answering smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “You’ve been working so hard lately, I thought I’d make you supper.” Her smile falters for a second before reasserting itself. “You like roast beef, I hope?”

He closes the door behind him and sighs, one hand going up to rub the back of his neck. “I — I do, and thank you, but I — I’m not hungry. I — I just — I’m exhausted. Can I take a raincheck?”

“Of course,” she reassures him as her smile disappears and a concerned frown takes its place, “are you okay?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “I am. Please do not trouble yourself. Now, If you will excuse me. I would like to get changed and relax for a bit before I turn in.”

“Um, okay,” she says, her lips trembling a little and Cullen nearly groans. Maker’s breath, he’s hurt her. Averting his gaze, he shuffles off to his room, hating himself just a little bit more.

A few minutes later, he returns wearing a pair of loose sweats and holding his pack of cigarettes and lighter.  She’s still in the kitchen putting away the food she cooked. Guilt rips through him. She didn’t have to do that, and he’s spoiling her kind gesture. And because of what?

Samson. That bastard has it in for him The muscles in his cheeks flex as his jaw tightens. Maker help him, how in the bloody Void is he going to make it, working with the man day after day?

_He was your friend once._

The scent of strawberries pulls him out of his thoughts. Brittany is puttering around the small space, the dying afternoon light shining through the windows on her lustrous golden hair and casting a sheen on her long, tanned legs beneath her white shorts.

He swallows hard and shifts his eyes away. Now that’s some trouble he does not need.

_She made you dinner._

Dropping his cigarettes and lighter on the counter, he sighs and rubs his forehead. Why did she do that? The thoughts crowd his brain, making his headache worse. Another sigh leaves him as he drums his fingers on the counter.

“Cullen?”

He looks up, and their eyes lock, gold to blue.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Can I get you anything?” Her expression is soft, still so concerned, a tiny wrinkle appearing on her smooth forehead.

Shutting his eyes, he grimaces. “I am fine,” he taps his forehead, “just a bit of a headache.”

As he pulls open a cabinet to grab his bottle of elfroot tablets, her arm grazes his bare abdomen as she reaches for them at the same time, and an electric shock sizzles through him.

“Oh! I’m sorry —I — I just wanted to get them for you,” she exclaims, jumping back as if the contact burns, spots of color high on her freckled cheeks.

“It’s fine,” he steps around her to get a glass of water to swallow down his pills. “I — uh — I’m going to sit out on the balcony,” he grabs his cigarettes and his lighter off the counter and crosses to the balcony doors, which are open to let in the warm spring air.

Her voice stops him as he reaches the door “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He turns back to face her, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. How many times has he told her already that he’s okay? He grits his teeth as he answers “Yes, I am quite alright. As I said, I have a small headache.”

“Um, okay,” she murmurs and turns back to cleaning up the kitchen.

Outside on the balcony, Cullen throws himself into one of the chairs. He lights a smoke and leans back in his seat, letting the cooler air bathe his hot face and torso. He rests an elbow on the armrest and leans his head on the hand holding his cigarette.

He sighs heavily, his mind drifting back to Samson and his games this morning. Maker’s breath, what is he going to do about it? Can he do anything? He has to admit, Samson has brought him up short.

_“Come on, Rutherford. Just take a hit; one hit won’t hurt your golden boy image,” Samson cajoles him._

_They’re sitting on their beds across from one another in their small room on base._

_He sighs and reaches out for the syringe Samson offers him. The liquid inside it is an electric blue and softly glows in the dimness of the room. He lifts one eyebrow as he regards his friend._

_“You are certain this can’t be traced? I am heading out with my squad in 5 hours.”_

_Samson spreads his arms wide. “I’m still here. Been using for two years now. You wanna make Commander by the time you’re 30, this is the only way.”_

_Cullen shuts his eyes and clutches the syringe. His dreams and everything he is he has poured into his service with the Order. Exhaustion pulls at him. Another mission awaits him, not yet a full day after he returned from his last one. Can he afford not to take it?_

_With a sigh, he accepts the length of rubber the other man holds out and seconds later, he’s injecting the blue into his vein._

“Cullen?” Brittany’s soft voice jolts him back to the present. He jumps in his seat, nearly dropping his cigarette. Damn it, what now? He sighs and takes a pull off his cigarette. 

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “What is it?”

“I — I was just wondering if I could get you anything?” she shuffles on her feet and bites her full lower lip,

“No, thank you, Brittany,”  he says, his tone clipped. Maker, why will she not leave him be? There’s a tightness in his chest like a vise gripping him, and he almost can’t breathe. He just wants to _think._

The need pulses within him, a niggling thing that slides under his skin and buries itself in his bones. He longs for solitude, a place where his brain can settle, where he can find his control again, but she —

“C-Cullen, a-are you sure you’re okay — you seem —“

He slams his hand hard down on the table, making its glass top rattle in its frame. She jumps and gasps, covering her mouth, but his irritation and the _need_ feed his anger, and it doesn’t register.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” he yells, rising to his feet and snatching his things from the table. His movements are quick and disjointed as he stalks past her, and he barely avoids shoving her aside in his haste to get to his room.  It’s too close — she’s too close — he can’t breathe — he can’t _be_. He has to get away.

In his room, he grabs a hoodie and slips it on, stuffing his smokes and lighter in a pocket, then snatching up his wallet and his keys, he strides from his room and makes a beeline for the front door.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice as he stalks past her, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

He turns to glare at her. “Just — I have to go.” Then, he opens the door and slams out of the flat, going nowhere and everywhere at full speed.


	6. Everything I Thought I Lost

He walks past kitschy college-town shops and trendy boutiques, but none of it registers in his mind.  He just walks, putting one foot in front of the other, chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette.

Why did he think this arrangement could work?

Cullen growls to himself, startling the students who are out enjoying the warm spring night, and takes an angry pull of his eleventh smoke.

Brittany is so — just everything about her pulls him toward her. Maker, she inspires feelings in him that he’d thought he’d forsaken long ago.  And, shit, she baked him cookies. And made him dinner!

When was the last time any woman had cared enough about him to do that?   And how does he repay her? By shouting curses at her and taking off like a child having a tantrum.

_You’re a damned bloody fool, Rutherford!_

Cullen winces, her tear-filled blue eyes damning him in his mind. How can he tell her how sorry he is for his boorish behavior?  He stops in front of a shop and takes one last pull of his cigarette before dousing it and tossing it in an ashtray.

 

* * *

 

The flat is quiet when he enters, the only sound the swishing of the dishwasher in the kitchen. Brittany sits curled-up on the couch, one textbook open in her lap and others scattered around her. He smiles at the image of innocence she makes as she bites her lip and drums her pen against the surface of the book.

Maker, she is perfect.

He must have made a sound because she looks up, and what he sees in her face pierces his heart like a lance. Her eyes, usually so clear and sparkling, are shiny with tears, bloodshot and rimmed in red. She sniffles and thin shoulders shake as she stands, allowing the book in her lap to fall on the couch cushions.

“C-Cullen? “

He crosses the room and is standing before her in an instant. She looks up at him, eyes wide and lips trembling. He reaches up and wipes away the single tear running down her freckled cheek, his expression wreathed in contrition.

“Maker, I can be such an arse sometimes, and earlier was one of them,” he offers her a single, long-stemmed, red rose, allowing one corner of his mouth to quirk upward. “Will you forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you!”  Joy and wonder transform her face as she accepts his gift. “But you didn’t have to do this,” she looks up at him, worry marring her brow. “I know you don’t have a lot of money —“

“Sshh, now. It’s just a rose. Besides, “ he teases, one golden eyebrow arching, “ has no one taught you to accept a gift gracefully?”

She giggles and blushes, but then her face gets serious as her eyes zero in on his mouth.

Her luminous eyes stare into his, unlocking the door to the very heart of him. He steps forward, backing her against the wall as his hungry eyes roaming her face. He counts each freckle on her nose, and his eyes settle on her parted pink lips, just begging for his mouth.

Pupils dilate and breaths ghost hot on each other’s faces as Cullen leans forward and captures her mouth.  Hands coming up to rest on the wall on either side of her head, he deepens the kiss. She opens for him eagerly as her hands cup the back of his neck, fingers threading through the thick hair at the back of his head.

His tongue slips into her mouth to tangle with hers as one hand cups her cheek, holding her steady as his lips twist on hers. She tastes like the sweetest candy, the most delectable treat that has ever touched his tongue. Cullen can’t get enough of her, and from the way she eagerly returns his kiss, sucking at his lips, and hooking one leg over his hip, she can’t get enough of him, either.

When he finally breaks the kiss, they are both breathing hard, sucking air as they stand in each other’s arms, foreheads touching.

“Maker,” he rasps, “I’m sorry —but that was really nice.”

Her smooth brow wrinkles. “You — you regret it?”

Cullen sighs and pulls away, running a hand through his hair.

“Brittany, you are — you are so young —“

“What does my age have to do with it? Cullen — I like you. And that kiss was fab. Please don’t tell me that you’re sorry you did that.”

He sighs again, watching her closely. He can see the interest burning in her sapphire eyes. Suddenly, he’s tired of second-guessing. He’s tired of fighting whatever is between them.

“No, I do not regret it, not at all,” he says before capturing her lips again and losing himself in her heaven.

 

* * *

 

Cullen glances at Brittany sitting beside him in his truck, bouncing and wiggling to the music on the stereo. She has the window open, and the wind is blowing her mane of blond hair around. The color is high on her freckled cheeks, and the joy in her expression fills his heart with lightness.

Maker, he still can’t believe his luck to have found such a treasure. He can’t believe that she is here with him. That she’s interested in _him_.

After his outburst, they curled up on the couch together and kissed until the wee hours,  just enjoying each other’s company.  Then, he asked her if she wanted to go to the beach with him.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Cullen?” she asked him, the sparkle back in her sapphire gaze.

He blushed like a schoolboy, damn his fair skin, and that made her giggle, which expanded his heart inside his chest until it constricted his breathing.

Maker, at that moment, he’d have done anything to hear that sound again and again.

Now, as they drive toward Sundermount Beach, the back of the truck loaded down with a cooler of drinks and food, and a beach blanket and towels, he realizes how good he feels. Better than he has in ages. 

He reaches out and grabs one of her hands, lifting it to his lips as he drives. Maker, her hand is so tiny and delicate. Smooth, too, so unlike his own large, rough paws.  Doubt assails him once more. She is so beyond him — in almost every way. So young, so untouched. Is it right to draw her into the wreckage of his life?

But then she smiles at him and all questions vanish. It’s like the sun popping out from behind a cloud, bathing the land with honeyed sunlight. That’s what she is: a light in his darkness.

He rubs her hand against his stubbled cheek and she giggles. “Cullen! That tickles!”

He lifts an eyebrow, a teasing smirk crossing his lips. “Shall I stop, then?”

She giggles again. “No. I like your rough cheeks.”

He laughs then and presses another kiss to her palm before releasing her hand. “Would you mind grabbing me a smoke, love? They’re in the center console here.”

Her dimples appear as she reaches where he directed her and snags his pack of cigarettes. Removing one, she offers it to him and laughs as he snags it with his mouth, winking at her.

“Thank you, love. “ He turns his head to blow some smoke out of the window before shooting her another appreciative look. “so, I am surprised you’ve never been to Sundermount.  Are you new to Kirkwall, then?”

“Hmm, I came here two years ago to study interior design,” She brushes her hair out of her eyes, “ Is that new?”

“Newer than some,” he says before taking another drag from his cigarette. He points ahead to a long stretch of sandy beach already strewn with the blankets and umbrellas of beachgoers eager to enjoy the warm weather. “There it is up ahead.”

Brittany excitedly sits forward in her seat. “It’s a huge beach. My friends and me like to stick to the smaller ones closer to the city when we go.”

Cullen’s brow furrows as he slows the truck to exit the highway and turn onto the road leading to the beach. Her friends include those lads, the ones who prefer shooting pixel guns at pixel enemies to paying attention to her.

He sticks his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and his hands clench the steering wheel tight and turns into the Sundermount Beach parking lot.

Cullen may not be the best man for her, but he’s not foolish enough to turn away a gift from the Maker.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is a good spot, yes?” he indicates a stretch of sand not too far from the surf.

She whirls around in a circle, laughing, her blond hair blowing around her in the sea breeze like a cape. “Yes, this is wonderful!”

“Come here, you,” he mock-growls as he takes her in his arms for a kiss. Allowing one hand to drift down to cup one pert buttock through the wrap she wears around her bikini. They kiss for a bit before he releases her with a smack on her ass. “Set up our blanket while I get the rest of our things from the truck.”

She salutes him mockingly. “Yes, Ser!”

 “Saucebox,” he retorts back, a huge grin splitting his features.  He winks and turns away to head back to the truck.

By the time he gets back, she’s spread their blanket out on the sand and arranged the things they’d brought from the truck on their first trip down. He grins as he notes that she has also shucked her wrap and is left in her yellow bikini, which is a little bit of nothing really, leaving much of her body bare to his appreciative gaze. He takes a moment to admire how the generous swells of her breasts bounce in her bikini top as she moves.

He swallows as his heartbeat picks up and his lower body tightens. Maker, the things she does to him, and they’ve yet to do more than kiss.

 “Hello my lovely,” he says as he sets down the cooler and more towels he’d grabbed from the truck.

She stands and smiles at him, her dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Hello, handsome,” she rejoins, her hands on her hips, drawing his gaze down her slender curves.

He takes off his shirt and drops it on the towel, smirking at the way her eyes travel over his muscular body.

He lifts an eyebrow questioningly. “Ready to go for a swim?”

“Betcha can’t catch me,” she says before taking off toward the sea.

“Minx!” he calls out, running after her.

Reaching her as she wades into the surf, he grabs her by the waist and lifts her into his arms

“Oh, I’ve got you now,” he tells her with a chuckle as he continues into the water until he’s about waist-deep in it. “And you know what that means.”

“No, I don’t,” she denies, trying to remain serious and failing from the giggles that leave her in spite of her efforts to contain them.

He lifts one large hand to show her. “It means I get to tickle you to death!”

“Cullen! No!”

“Oh, yes!”

Digging his fingers into her ribs he tickles her mercilessly, enjoying her shrieking laughter and squirming attempts to evade his fingers.

The tickle fight turns into a splash fight, which turns into a breath-holding contest, followed by lazy swimming for an hour or so before his growling stomach lets him know that it’s lunchtime. He stands up in the water beside Brittany and pushes his wet hair back off his forehead. He can’t help but notice her appreciative eyes on his body, which starts an answering fire in his own.

“Are you hungry yet?” he asks, trying to distract himself from his twitching cock by focusing on his hunger.

She leans close and wraps one hand around his waist to give him a gentle squeeze. “Starved. Let’s get out of the water and get some food.”

Cullen puts his arm around her slim shoulders and  together they leave the sea, trudging up the sloping beach to their beach blanket.

After he cleans his plate, Cullen sighs and pats his stomach contentedly as he stretches out on the blanket. “Those were delicious sandwiches, love. Thank you.”

She leans across the blanket to kiss him. ”The roast beef was good?”

“I’ve never tasted better,” he assures her. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

She averts her gaze. “Um, from my family. “ she wraps her arms around her bent legs and watches the sea. “I used to spend a lot of time in the kitchen.”

He cocks his head and reaches out to cover her clasped hands with one of his. “Do you — do you miss your family?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I’m actually glad to be away from them. My family can be — suffocating.”

Cullen chuckles. “I can understand that,” he says, thinking of his own loud family and remembering how he used to hide out at the lake near his home when he wanted some peace and quiet. He reaches out to cup her cheek as he leans in for a kiss.

He’d meant it to be no more than a gentle peck, a little show of affection,  but the touch of her lips on his sends an electric shock through him.

She opens for him and automatically moves closer to press her bikini-clad body against his bare, sandy torso. Her arms twine around his neck as their lips twist together and his head spins as his blood rushes from head to groin.

Maker, the way she responds!

He wants to strip her down and take her right here, but they’re on a public beach, and this is just their first date, for Maker’s sake.

So, with much reluctance, he breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against hers, sucking air and trying to get his hormones under control.

“You are fire in my arms, love,” he whispers.

She leans away to regard him with lust-darkened blue eyes, her lips swollen from his kisses, and the urge comes over him again to push her down on the blanket and cover her body with his.

Okay. Time to change the pace.

He releases her and gets to his feet, patting his defined abdomen. “Time for a walk, I think,” he grins at her playfully, and he offers her a hand. “Want to come?”

She smiles up at him, dimples flashing in her cheeks as she takes his hand. “Of course.”


	7. I Come to You in Pieces

“Finally get some, Goldilocks?”

Cullen looks up to see Bull standing in front of him, a teasing glint in his single eye. He lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“You look happy today. Been standing there smirking since you got here.” The larger man’s tone seems affable, yet the hairs on his arms raise and a tingle races up his spine. Bull — the whole team, actually, is close to Samson, and to be honest, he’s kept his distance for that reason. Who knows what nonsense the other man has been spewing about him?

“And that is none of your business,” Cullen returns, deciding to take the Qunari at face value. He tries a smile to take the sting out of his words and looks around. “Where is everyone?” He and Bull are alone on the raised platform where his team normally meets every morning.

Bull chuckles. “Out on the docks already. You’ve been lost in dreamland; must have been real nice,”  he claps Cullen on the shoulder, “we’re on slip 30. Freighter just come in from Antiva full of citrus. Come on.”  

The sun has already eaten away the morning fog by the time he and Bull exit the warehouse and make their way to slip 30. It glints on the equipment arrayed in a line before the huge black freighter floating beside the stained concrete dock. The rest of the crew is already there, standing near the forklifts, cabling, and the pallets ready for unloading the cargo.

“Ah, Golden boy, it’s your lucky day. You’re with me in the hold,” Samson announces from his position leaning casually against one of the forklifts.

Cullen rolls his eyes. “Wonderful,” he grumbles, but adjusts his tool belt around his hips and follows the other man down the gangplank and into the ship’s hold. This is the least favorite part of his job: the ship’s walls seem to close in on him, and he has to consciously remind himself of where he is.

As they descend into the bowels of the ship, Cullen shivers as the natural light fades and is replaced by dim light fixtures in the bulkhead walls. Samson looks over his shoulder and sneers at him.

“Aw, is Golden Boy scared of the dark?”

Cullen ignores him, shouldering past to enter the hold, where stacks of boxed citrus fruits are lined up in long rows to greet them. Shadows loom off the walls, pooling in the recesses of the cavernous space. Cullen’s heartbeat begins to pick up as the smell of brine and bilge water accosts his nostrils.

He closes his eyes and centers himself, using the techniques the counselors at the rehab clinic had taught him. Brittany. He pictures her smiling at him in the car on the way to the beach, her dimples flashing in her cheeks. He thinks about how her blond hair streamed away from her face like a pennant in the wind as they walked along the shore and the curves of her body in her tiny yellow bikini. His breathing calms, and his racing heart slows.

 “All right, to work?” he says to the other man, slipping on his gloves and moving toward Samson who is waiting near the crates of fruit. He grits his teeth. He’ll be damned if he shows an ounce of weakness before the bloody bastard.

The two men work in silence for a while, carrying crates to the large pallet that will be craned out of the hold once it is full. Once it is off-loaded on the dock, the rest of the team will use the forklifts to ferry stacks of the crates into the warehouse.

Cullen would prefer to be manning the forklifts, or even the crane, but, since he and Samson are away from the rest of the team, maybe he can set a few things straight with the other man — get him to stop encouraging the management to have him drug tested every bloody week. Those tests are putting a serious crimp in his pay, and he just can’t afford it, not even with the low rent he has to pay Brittany.

After hooking the pallet up to the winch and radioing Bull to haul it up, Cullen observes Samson. The other man is inspecting his hands for blisters while they wait for another pallet to replace the full one that’s slowly rising toward the huge hatch overhead.

“Samson,” he starts, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck, “ look, I know we share a complicated history —“

Samson cuts him off with a sharp bark of laughter. “Is that what you’re calling it, Golden Boy? That make you feel better when you go to sleep at night rather than —“

“Oh for the love of —“ Cullen interrupts, scowling at the other man as his temper starts to rise. He should have known better than to expect his former friend and roommate to speak with him civilly about anything. “Just stop encouraging the management to have me drug tested every fucking week, all right?“

Samson crosses his arms over his chest and appraises Cullen thoughtfully. “What makes you think it’s me? Maybe they do that to all former addicts.”

Cullen raises a skeptical eyebrow and snorts. “Are they doing that to you, too, then?”

“No, but maybe they think your case warrants it. Are you so sure you don’t?”

His temper flares again. “Just what are you implying?”

Samson laughs, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “Oh, come now, Golden Boy. You were hitting the blue pretty hard there at the end. Can’t be too careful, you know. Just look what happened to the boys on your team.”

The words slam into him, sucking all the breath out of his lungs. Maker, no, he has the presence to think before his current surroundings fade away, and he’s back on another ship cutting through the deep waters of the Nocen Sea.

 

_Surreptitiously glancing down the hall to his left and right, Cullen slides open the door to his quarters and slips inside. Quickly, stripping off his uniform shirt, he crosses to his duffel and digs around until his hand closes on the familiar box. Slipping it free, he tosses it on his bunk before going to carefully lock the door._

_It wouldn’t do to have his men or anyone else see him now. Not when they are mere hours from their mission location, not when so much rides on their success._

_Sitting down on the blankets, he opens the lid and the buzz of need shivers up his spine and saliva floods his mouth. It’s too soon, too fucking soon, but he can’t let his team down. The mission is too critical. Kyle and Rey are due for promotion to Knight-Lieutenant, and performing well now could mean they get there faster._

_The tiny glass vial with its precious supply of blue fluid is cold in his hand as he uncaps a syringe and sticks the needle through the stopper and pulls back the plunger to draw some of the fluid into its barrel.  Setting it aside, he wraps the length of rubber cord around his bicep and makes a fist a few times until the veins in his forearm pop._

_Quickly and efficiently, he stabs the needle into a vein and injects himself, leaning back against the bulkhead. Releasing the tourniquet, he lets it fall away to land on the covers beside him as he inhales deeply, the tangy scent of the sea sharper in his nostrils. His muscles twitch with energy and every sound, from the calls of the sailors on deck to the muted harmonica music from enlisted men’s quarters comes to him as clearly as if its maker is sitting beside him._

_He closes his eyes and lets it all wash over him. He is ready._

 

Cullen groans as awareness returns to him by inches. The first thing he notices is how the cold of the concrete floor seeps through his shirt to meld with sweat, making the fabric cling clammily to his back. It makes him shiver.

“Wh-what happened?” he asks, as he sits up clumsily, glancing around the gray-walled hold. Sunlight pours through the wide hatch above him, illuminating a large square around him.  

“You all right, mate?” Samson helps him get to his feet, something that looks like concern wreathing his features. “You fell to your knees and just passed out cold.”

His throbbing knees confirm his former friend’s words. Fuck.

Dizziness and wobbly legs threaten to send him crashing back down to the hard floor, but he manages to remain standing with Samson on one side of him and Krem on the other.

“I’m fine, “ he manages, his cheeks heating. He steps away from the other two men, even as his vision swims and his limbs feel heavy — like they don’t belong to him. The tingle at the base of his skull and the pressure above his left eyebrow presage an oncoming migraine.

Just sodding great.

“Sure you are,” scoffs Samson, “come on, then, let’s get you topside. You’re done for the day.”

Cullen wants to protest, wants to tell him to piss off that he can bloody well manage to finish out his shift, thank you very much.  But the sick throb starting in his head, and the exhaustion that always follows an episode keep him silent as he allows them to escort him out of the hold.

Waving Samson and Krem away, he groans as he sits down on a large crate to get his bearings. The docks buzz with activity all around him, but he ignores it as he digs in the breast pocket of his shirt for his pack of smokes. Maker knows what Samson will tell Ms. DuCarre about this. He’ll be lucky to still have a job come tomorrow. With shaking hands, he manages to pull out a cigarette and get it lit. Taking a long drag, he lets the nicotine take the edge off his frayed nerves.

“You’d best get home, Rutherford,” his name on Samson’s lips startles him. He hasn’t called him by anything but Golden Boy in years. “You look like shit,” and as if he could read his mind, he added, “don’t worry, I’ll cover for you — this time.”

He nods and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Thank — thank you, Sam. I appreciate it.”

The other man looks away and shrugs. “Don’t mention it. Now get out of here!”

 

* * *

 

He has no idea how he manages to drive himself home. He stumbles up the stairs, the sound of his own footsteps reverberating in his skull while black spots dance in his vision. With shaking hands, he manages to unlock the door and fall inside. The apartment is empty, thank the Maker.

Dropping his messenger bag by the door, he heads for the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt as he tries to avoid the furniture. Void, he hasn’t had a headache this bad in weeks, but having an episode almost guarantees he’ll get one. Vague thoughts about what Brittany will think if she sees him like this make him frown, but he’s too damned tired and sick to care about it too much.

He fills a glass with water from the sink and carries it and his bottle of elfroot tablets to the couch. Grunting, he allows himself to collapse onto its soft cushions. Maker.

He leans back for a second, closing his eyes. Thoughts of Brittany flashing him her dimpled smile make the scarred corner of his lips curve upward, despite his pain. His heart swells in his chest, and for just a little bit, he can almost forget his migraine. She is his elixir, lending him the strength to keep going.

Sighing, he sets down his glass on the coffee table, and he shakes out four tablets. Popping them in his mouth, he swallows them down with a swig of water, wincing as his neck and throat muscles tighten with the motion. Exhausted, he groans as he drags the soft blanket hanging on the back of the couch over his aching body. His last thoughts are of blue eyes and blushing freckled cheeks before he crashes into sleep.

The sound of the front door opening and the soft murmur of voices wake him an hour later.

“Another time, okay? “ he hears Brittany murmur to another person, and then the click of the door closing and the tumble of the lock as she engages it.

Cullen frowns as he struggles to sit up, groaning as the throbbing in his head worsens slightly with the movement.

“Brit — Brittany, you do not need to cancel — to cancel your plans on my account,” he manages to say as he leans his torso against the back of the couch, too weak with pain to sit up straight.

Her smooth brow wrinkles with concern as she comes to him and, bending over,  she cradles his face in her hands.  Her thumbs smooth over his eyebrows as he blue eyes examine him closely.

“Oh, my poor Cullen,” she coos, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead before helping him to lie back down, tucking the blanket around him carefully. She sits at the edge of the couch and rubs his chest gently, and he closes his eyes, relaxing into her touch.  “You look awful! What’s wrong?”

He swallows and his brow creases, his cheeks heating. “A migraine,” he admits sheepishly. “I — I get them sometimes.” She doesn’t need to know about his episode. The damned headache is bad enough!

She smiles, her blue eyes soft and warm. “Okay. You stay just where you are,” she says, rising to her feet.

“Mmm,” he doesn’t have the energy for anything else, so he just closes his eyes and drifts, listening to her puttering around in the kitchen. It’s such a domestic sound, the noise of another person taking the time to care for him in a way he hasn’t known since he left home. A smile curls the corners of his lips despite his aching head.

A few minutes later, she’s setting a mug of tea and a plate of lightly buttered toast on the coffee table in front of him. “There you go, baby. You just drink that and try to eat some toast. Then you can nap for a while.”

He smiles up at her, gingerly sitting up. She stuffs some pillows behind him for support, and he huffs his gratitude. He picks up the single steaming mug. “Thank you, love. Are you not having any?”

She shrugs. “I just had lunch with some of my friends.”

Cullen looks down at his cup. “About that. I am sorry. I — I did not mean to interfere —“

“It’s cool. Don’t worry about it. You aren’t feeling well. I can have them over another time.” She scoots closer to him on the couch, stroking his chest with one hand while the other begins to knead the tense muscles of his neck. “Maker, Cullen, your neck! It’s so tight.”

He sighs, holding his mug propped against one knee while he closes his eyes to enjoy her ministrations. Her fingers feel like heaven, digging into the knots at the base of his skull.

She is so young, and she has no idea. No idea of what she is missing out on by letting him in her life. When he allows himself to think about just how many years separate their ages, he feels ancient by comparison. He should not allow this. And yet, he lets her assurances soothe him, even though he knows better. He bloody well knows better!

In the end, he lets it drop, opting to just be for now. His head hurts too much to think. Is it so wrong for him to enjoy her attentions? To take her comfort when everything else in his life seems to prick and pull at him daily, abrading his already raw nerves? And, Maker, what she is doing feels too damn good to tell her to stop. He can already feel the edges of his headache fading the more she works on his neck.

He drops his head to give her more access and is rewarded by her fingers delving lower to massage the join of his neck and shoulders where he holds a lot of his tension.

“Maker,” he breathes, and he’s a little embarrassed by the slur in his voice, “ that feels so good.”

She giggles, and it makes the scarred corner of his lips quirk up. How he loves that sound. It reminds him of wind chimes and rolling hills of heather. Of soft moonlight gilding the surface of the lake and whispered sighs.

They fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by his soft grunts and groans as her fingers find and release the knots that have been there for years.

“There, “ she says as she finishes and pulls her hand away.  She leans back to survey his face. “Does that feel better?”

He twists his neck around, turning it left and right, then up and down, surprised at how easy it moves.

“Much better,” he smiles at her and reaches out to pull her against him, his lips finding hers in a soft kiss. “Thank you, love, you’re amazing,” he murmurs against her lips before kissing her again, this time with more heat, his fingers tangling in her long hair.

He draws her closer, angling his head to deepen the kiss as he slides one hand down to palm one full breast. Maker, she’s so soft, so warm, so alive. He inhales the heady aroma of her, drowning in her taste as his tongue twists around hers.

Desire licks up his spine and pools low and heavy in his lower body, but the thunder of his heartbeat and the blood racing through his veins bang against his skull, causing a renewed throbbing.

Shit.

Reluctantly, he breaks their kiss, pulling back to look at her.  Brittany’s eyes are heavy-lidded, the blue of her irises darkened with passion. Her cheeks are flushed, and her pink lips are parted, begging for his kiss. He smiles at her ruefully. “I — I’m afraid I am not as recovered as I would like,” he says, giving her a gentle squeeze.

She clears her throat and pushes away from him. Her dimples flash as she smiles softly and reaches for the remote on the coffee table.

“Um, how about some Netflix, if you’re up to it?”

Cupping her cheek, he runs his thumb across her pouty bottom lip. “That sounds great, sweetheart.”

As she settles back on the couch, he tugs her close to him, wrapping her in his arms and cocooning them both in his blanket. She snuggles against him and flicks on the television, keeping the volume low, so it doesn’t bother his head.

They stay like that long after the movie ends,  neither wanting to leave their cozy nest.


	8. A New Beginning, A Reason for Living

Cullen frowns, staring at his laptop screen, chin resting on one hand. Sighing, he drops it and leans back in his seat, taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing out a cloud of smoke. The numbers on the screen tell it all:  it’ll be another tight month. But at least he’ll have enough to cover his bills, thank the Maker.

A crooked smile lifts one corner of his mouth as his eyes find Brittany sitting cross-legged on one of the chaises.  Her brow is delicately furrowed as she writes in the notebook she has balanced on one knee while she scans the pages of the thick textbook poised on the other.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, closing his laptop and pulling his checkbook closer to him on the table. “It’s that time again, but you still have not told me who I should be making my rent checks out to,” flipping it open, he starts writing in the amount of the rent in the appropriate space. “Care to enlighten me?” he shoots her a wry grin, raising his eyebrows entreatingly.

“What — oh, don’t worry about it. Just leave it blank like always, and I’ll take care of it. His name is hard to spell,” she offers, nibbling on her pen as she flips a page on her notebook.

Cullen’s brow furrows, a tingle of annoyance rippling through him. Does she really think him to be some uneducated lout who can’t spell unusual names? “Oh? Why don’t you try me?”

She smirks and stands, setting aside her work to come slinking over to him. “I think I have a better idea,” she purrs, sliding into his lap and twining her thin arms around his neck. “Why don’t you kiss me instead?”

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warns, his lips millimeters from hers, their breaths mingling in the warm summer night air. He reaches around her to douse his cigarette in the ashtray and then places his hands around her ribcage just underneath her breasts.

“I accept the consequences,” she whispers, running one hand through his hair. Her long nails scraping against his scalp and the pressure of her arse on his rapidly hardening cock drive all reason from his mind. He captures her lips in a fierce kiss, his hands sliding up to squeeze her breasts. He snakes one under her top, and Maker, she isn’t wearing a bra. There’s nothing between his palm and her sweet, plump flesh. Heat flares in his belly, the muscles in his groin and upper thighs tensing up.

He groans into her mouth, standing up as she wraps her legs around his waist, her hands squeezing his shoulders. Carrying her into the flat, Cullen lays her down on the couch before following her down, his lips never losing contact with hers.

Impatient hands discard clothing and then it’s just her skin pressed against his. The feeling is electric. His blood rushes to the points of contact, and his every nerve comes alive. His skin flushes from his head to his navel as warmth suffuses through him. She drags one foot up his calf as he continues to plunder her mouth with kisses. Disengaging from her mouth, he looks down at her, and his breath catches. Tracing her jawline with one finger, he growls “You are so fucking beautiful like this.”

She gasps as Cullen bends to press kisses along the line of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin and inhaling her scent. She squirms and wiggles a little, turning her head to give him more access. He hums in approval as his hands slide down from her shoulders to cup her firm, young breasts. He squeezes them, rubbing one nipple between his thumb and forefinger while he bathes the other with his tongue. They stiffen under his touch, and he groans.

Maker, she is perfect. He wants to lose himself in her, to make love to her until neither of them can stand. He can’t believe she’s allowing him this. Still attending to her gorgeous breasts with his mouth and hand, he slides the other down her taut abdomen to her core. He slips his fingers between her folds Fuck, she’s drenched.

He’s barely begun, and her slick is already coating his fingers. He lifts his head to look at her, and what he sees spikes the heat pooling in his groin.  “Cullen,” she mewls, her lids falling half-closed over lust-darkened blue eyes, pink lips parted over her straight white teeth. “Cullen, please, I need you so.”

Brows furrowing, he shuts his eyes and groans, quickly reciting mathematic equations to regain control.

_Make this last, Rutherford. Make it good for her._

He drops his head to capture her lips in a searing kiss, his hand wrapping around her skull, fingers tangling in her blond tresses. Nibbling at her full bottom lip, he retreats and gently nudges her thighs apart, kneeling between them.

“As do I, my love,” he croons, brushing back her hair tenderly “ as do I. And now, I am going to make you sing,”

Then he smirks and settles his head between her legs. Her gasps meld with his moans as he sets his tongue on her. Maker, her taste — It’s heaven.  Her flavor and her scent overtake his senses, inflaming him even more. He swipes the tip of his tongue over her pearl, and she arches into him, her young, limber body lifting off the cool leather of the sofa cushions.

Thrusting his face against her,  he uses the flat of his tongue to lick her from top to bottom, pausing to suck on her clit before returning to where he started. He laps up her essence, enjoying the little hitches in her breathing and her mewling whenever he swirls his tongue around her.

“Cullen, I — I,” she whines, rocking her hips on his mouth, searching for the friction she needs.

He slips one finger, then two inside her. Maker, she is so fucking tight. He wants to plunge into her, to feel the muscles tightening around his fingers close around his cock. There is nothing he wants more. Well, no. What he wants more than that is for her to come apart around him.

Maker, _yes_.

He can wait. He’s waited months already. A little more time is not going to hurt him.

“Cullen, please,” she begs, her thighs tightening around his head and shoulders. She is quivering and close, oh so close.  Using his thumbs, he gently separates her tight folds from her bud and starts flicking his tongue back and forth over it while sucking it between his lips.

_Yes, love, come for me._

Her hands clutch at the back of his head as she cries out, her orgasm bursting around him and coating his lower face with her juices. Still, he continues. He wants to send her over, again and again, wants to give her pleasure until she can’t take it anymore.

“Cullen” she screams as she comes for a second and a third time, her cries of completion echoing around him in the sweetest symphony he’s ever heard. He smiles and raises himself to kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue as he rubs his cock against her. He is harder than he’s been in a long time, his balls heavy and tight between his thighs.

Lifting his face away from hers, he regards her seriously. “Sweetheart,” he says, swallowing around a suddenly tight throat, “I – I need to ask, to – to be sure you want this – want me. Do you?”

“Oh, Cullen,” she whispers softly, the most beautiful smile dimpling her cheeks. She brushes back his hair from his forehead. “Of course I do. Make me yours.”

He slips a hand between her legs and grins as he confirms that she’s still soaking wet for him, then holding himself, he starts sliding into her. Watching her face for any signs of pain, he moves slowly, allowing her to get used to his girth.

She closes her eyes and bites her bottom lip,  sliding her palms up his chest to grip his shoulders as she arches her hips up into his, seating him the rest of the way within her. “Fuck,” he curses and groans low in his throat. “Maker, you feel so good, sweetheart.” He drops his head on her shoulder, pressing hot, desperate kisses to her neck, “I — I’m not going to last much longer.”

“It’s okay, Cullen, I — I think I’m going to —” her words are smothered as their lips crash together in a scorching kiss. He starts to move, his hips thrusting back and forth and growing more frantic by the second. His hand slips between their bodies and finds her pearl again, his thumb and fingers coaxing gasps and cries from her.

“Yes, love, that’s it, “he growls, “come for me,” As her pleasure crests again, he roars “Brittany, oh Brittany,” emptying himself inside her. Afterward, he collapses, half on top of her half on the cushions, even now mindful not to crush her.

Flipping them over, he settles her on top of him, letting his eyes close as an exhausted sigh leaves him. Feeling her moving around, he cracks open one eye to find her propped up on her elbows and looking down at him, her hair a disheveled mess falling about her shoulders. She has an impish grin on her face.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing,” she drawls, her grin growing wider. “You’re just amazing. And handsome. That was wonderful. Can we do it again?”

He chuckles and shuts his eye, settling himself on the cushions. “Again? Now?  I am afraid I need a bit of time to —  recover. I’m far from 18, you know.”

“Bummer!” Even with his eyes shut, he can see her pretty pout, and it’s almost enough to rouse him. Almost, but not quite.

“Well, now, “ he says, smirking, “If you’ll allow me a short nap, I’m sure I can be coaxed into round two. I recall that there are two perfectly fine beds in this flat, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

She laughs, and the sound fills his heart with joy. “Okay, old man,” she tells him, rising to her feet. “I guess I’ll go study while you _recover_.”

“Minx.” He gives a tired laugh as he snags a throw pillow and wedges it under his head. He sighs and lets his satisfied lassitude overtake him.

 

* * *

 

Cullen winds his way back to their table with their drinks, barely holding back a low growl of frustration at the press of people jostling him from every direction. Maker, but this music is so bloody loud! How can anyone even hear each other talk?

The nightclub is one he’s never been to before, a large room of concrete and exposed steel beams, neon multi-colored lights reflecting off their polished surfaces. Raised booths line the perimeter of the room, and in the middle is the bar and the dance floor.

Why had he agreed to this again? A night out with Brittany alone is one thing, but a night out with her and her insane friends? He winces the synth beat blaring from the speakers reaches a crescendo and curses aloud when someone bumps him in the back, spilling some drink over his hands.

Brittany smiles brightly at him as he slides into the booth beside her, setting down their drinks “Hey, bae, “ she greets him, dancing in her seat,  her long blond curls bouncing around her shoulders. Her blue eyes are sparkling, and he can catch the shimmer of her iridescent eyeshadow.  He smirks, recalling the way she flitted around the flat as they got ready for tonight, asking him over and over again if she looked okay.

“Maker, sweetheart, you look so good that I am going to have to beat off every other bloke there to keep them away from you,” he told her from his position leaning against the open jam of the balcony doors.  Finishing his smoke, he winked at her as she sashayed toward him, her legs looking impossibly long under her short skirt, the pale pastel blue of the tight, knit fabric of her dress clinging to her curves. She grinned at him then, standing on tiptoe to plant a quick kiss on his lips. It was all he could do not to crush her to him and beg her to call off tonight’s outing in favor of spending it in bed with him instead.

Warmth invades his chest as he returns her smile and pushes her drink toward her — some silly, girly thing adorned with toothpick parasols and citrus fruits around the rim.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a sip before leaning over and giving him a quick kiss. With a saucy wink, she turns back toward her friends. He smirks and leans his back into the cool vinyl of the booth, one arm stretched along the top behind her. Sipping his beer,  he lets the girls’ chatter roll over him

 “He didn’t!” exclaims the brunette, brushing her hair off her forehead, her blue eyes huge in her pixie face. Cullen struggles to remember her name, setting his mug down on the table and brushing away a piece of lint from his black cotton button-down.

The other girl tosses back her long, straight strawberry- blond hair and slams her thin hand down on the table for emphasis.  “I’m telling you, he stood up in class and announced it to the world!”

That cute little wrinkle appears on Brittany’s nose as she giggles. “And what did she do?” she asks.  Maker, he longs to kiss it. Playing with a strand of her blond hair, he considers coaxing her into leaving early, going somewhere quiet, just the two of them.

“Maker, she was horrified! Her face went beet red and she just kind of hunched over and tried to hide all during the rest of class — probably for the rest of the day! “ the redhead’s eyes widen. “Andraste, remember when Tommy Vinto tried to kiss you at Marcy’s birthday party. Britt?”

“And you just let him because you didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his friends. You were so sweet – just playing it off like that,” adds the brunette, giggling — Void, he really should remember their names.

Brittany’s cheeks turn an attractive shade of pink, her eyes sliding to him and then down at her drink. “C’mon guys, it wasn’t such a big deal. Whatever happened to him anyway? He kind of disappeared after secondary.”

Cullen’s smirk widens around his glass and barely contains his snort of laughter. This, now, this is interesting. His fingers find her shoulder, and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. She lifts her gaze to his and gives him a warm smile.

“I heard he joined the Templars. Got transferred to Ferelden. Somewhere called Kinloch?” the brunette shrugs and sips her drink.

He lifts an eyebrow and shifts forward in his seat. Vinto- the name is familiar. The image of a dark-haired lad, barely past his 18th birthday jogs his memory. He’d been a bit of an arse, frankly, lording his nobility over the other newly-minted Templars.  It can’t have been the same fellow, given that the lad they are talking about is close to their ages. An older brother, perhaps?

“Really?“ Brittany and the redhead chorus in surprise.

“Yeah, his fam are real military supporters. They’ve had family in the Order going back generations.”

“There was a Vinto stationed at Kinloch with me. He ended up at the Spire, as far as I know,” he puts in, finishing his beer and setting down his glass on the table.

“What was his name? Was it Jason?” the dark-haired girl turns her eyes on him, popping a maraschino cherry between her lips and pulling it off its stem.

Before he can answer, Jackson and Will come thumping back from the bar where they have doubtless been making fools of themselves trying to pick up women. Pulling up two chairs, they park themselves at the edge of the booth and regard the group with unfocused eyes. Will seems a little more together than Jackson who is swaying in his seat.

He heaves a long sigh.  He’s going to wind up having to drive the blighters home, he just knows it. Brittany will insist.

“Dude, you were in the Templars? C’mon, tell us some Templar stories!” Jackson begs, and Cullen tries not to grimace.   

“Dude, stop!” Brittany interrupts before Cullen can open his mouth. “You have no chill! We’re here to drink and dance, not sit around listening to war stories!” She raises a challenging eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. “So, how about it, old man? Wanna show me you’ve still got the moves?”

Alarmed, he starts to say “I hardly —” but finishes with a grudging “all right.” Maker, what has she done to him? He is powerless to resist her.

Brittany giggles and claps her hands excitedly. “Well, c’mon, let’s go!” She chivvies him out of the booth and jumps out behind him before taking his hand and pulling him toward the crowded dance floor.

The heavy techno-beat of the song currently playing is not one he even knows what to do with. Thankfully, it’s just ending as she turns toward him in the middle of the crush of the other dancers and the DJ changes the song to one he knows.

 _I should have known better_  
Than to let you go alone

Smirking, he pulls her into his arms and chuckles at her surprised look as he takes her hands and settles them on his shoulders while placing his at her waist. He starts to move them back and forth, expertly spinning her out and back into his embrace.

“Cullen! I thought you said you didn’t dance.” Her eyes are shining in the intimate lighting, and her teeth flash white as she beams up at him. His throat tightens as his heart expands in his chest, trapping the air in his lungs.

“For you, I’ll try,” he says hoarsely. At that moment, he realizes he’d do anything to bring that expression of joy and wonder to her face. Without thinking about it, he looks straight into her eyes and starts crooning along with David Coverdale:

 _“I can feel my love for you_  
Growing stronger day by day  
An' I can't wait to see you again  
So I can hold you in my arms.”

She giggles and presses her face into his shirt, hugging him tightly as they sway in place while he quietly serenades her with the rest of the song. The woman in his arms is his entire world, and for now, that suits him just fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Cullen and Brittany dance to is [Is This Love by Whitesnake.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JtF1qbAK0E) One of my guilty pleasures.


	9. I've Been Holding Back Words and Waiting for Time

Cullen stretches, the soft cotton sheets brushing against his naked body. He smiles sleepily as he encounters Brittany’s warm form beside him. The gentle morning light paints the walls of his room a buttery yellow, pools of it spilling over the duvet covering them both. They’re in his bed because it’s a king whereas hers is only a full. With his size, her bed gets a bit cramped. He sighs and pulls her closer to him, closing his eyes and allowing himself to fall into a light doze.

The pressure of soft lips trailing down his abdomen pull him from sleep a short while later. Opening one eye, he lifts his head up off his pillow slightly and grins. Britany’s blond hair spills across his stomach, the shafts of sunlight turning it to spun gold. She’s following the trail of hair below his belly button, placing soft, butterfly kisses on his flesh, moving lower and lower. His cock, already erect, twitches eagerly. Then she takes him in her hot mouth and sucks on his tip, slowly drawing the rest of him inside.

He groans, letting his eyes drift shut as reaches out to cup the back of her head, his hand fisting lightly in her hair. “Maker yes,” he hisses. Her tongue, slick and wet, slides up and down his length, drawing low moans out of him as he squirms on the sheets. Her fingers join her mouth, her nails dancing lightly across his aching balls and the hot skin behind them. “Oh, yes, just like that.”

In the past two weeks, they’ve discovered that she absolutely loves going down on him. She’s so bloody good at it that he can’t believe his good fortune sometimes. Brittany giggles and grins around him as she ghosts the tip of one nail around his sensitive pucker, sending him arching up off the sheets, his entire body trembling.  

“Ah, fuck!” Cullen grips her head tighter, pressing her closer, urging her to take him deeper. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut, every muscle in his lower body tightening. His skin flushes as sweat breaks out across his body. She lets him slide out her mouth with a lewd pop as she raises her head to give him a wicked smile, her blue eyes dancing.

“You like?” she asks coyly, continuing to stroke him with her hand.

“You know I do,” he grits out. The way her hand is circling around his tip before gliding down to the base of his shaft and back up again is sending heat racing along his nerves. Then she drops her head and engulfs him in her mouth once again. His neck arches back as stars dance in his vision.

She hums as she bobs her head up and down on his cock, one hand gripping the base and moving up and down in time with her head while the other works his balls. Her enthusiastic sounds meld with the wet slurps of her mouth and tongue. His balls tighten, and before he can warn her, he empties himself in her mouth with a desperate groan. But she doesn’t pull away, even then. Instead, she continues to suck and lick him as she swallows his come down her welcoming throat.

It’s only when his climax starts to ebb that she draws back,  a smug smile on her face. She traces a fingernail over her lips and inserts it into her mouth to suck on it. The sight is almost enough to get him hard again. “Mmm, delicious.” She winks at him sassily and bounces off the bed. “Come on, get out of bed, sleepy head. Aren’t you meeting your friend for lunch today?”

He watches her through passion-bleary eyes as she moves naked around the room, tossing their discarded clothing from the night before into the hamper. Idly, he considers coaxing her back into bed. “Hm, not ‘til one,” he replies, rolling over and covering his head with a pillow.

“Sleep for a bit longer, then,” she kisses him between the shoulder blades, making him shiver. “I am going to have a shower, then I have some shopping to do. I’ll see you later.”

“Mhmm.” Cullen smiles beneath his pillow and exhales a contented sigh, sleep already reclaiming him before the bedroom door shuts behind her.

* * *

The restaurant Adam suggested for lunch is one he is familiar with. It’s close to the base, and he used to frequent it regularly during his years in the Order. When he walks in, it’s like no time has passed at all. The same scents of frying fish and charbroiled hamburgers permeate the air, the interior is still comfortably dim and homey.

He quickly scans the small room and spots Adam sitting in a darkly paneled booth in the back. The other man grins when he notices him and waves him over. As he crosses the room, Adam gets to his feet. “Hey, you made it!” Adam greets him, pulling him into a hearty hug. “Good to see you, man.”

 “Life’s been good to you, I see,” he jokes as he steps out of the other man’s embrace and pats his slightly protruding stomach.

Adam huffs. “Well, I, um, I’m not out in the field much anymore.” But he grins as he slides back into the booth.

Cullen chuckles and settles himself in across from him, picking up the menu and looking inside. “And I’m sure Debbie’s cooking has nothing to do with it — Maker, this place really hasn’t changed at all, has it — how is she, by the way?”

Adam laughs and fishes his menu out from under his silverware. “She’s doing well, thanks for asking. She got her MA and is working for the government now,”  he meets Cullen’s eyes over the top of the menu, “how in the Void have you been, you old sod?”

Cullen rolls his eyes, but there’s a warmth settling in his chest as he and his friend fall back into their old camaraderie “We’re the same age. You know that right?” he smirks, lifting an eyebrow. “Better these days. Working at the docks. Got a nice little place in the University District.  And you? You said you had some news. Nothing bad, I hope.”

“Ah, now, you’re a whole _month_ older than me, the operative word here being _older_!” Adam closes his menu and leans back in his seat, a smug grin on his face. “But no, nothing bad. I have been —"

A waitress approaches their table, pulling out her notepad and a pen. “What can I get for you gentlemen?” she asks in a bored voice, her haggard eyes barely glancing at them.

Cullen lifts his eyebrows, silently asking Adam is he’s ready to order. At the other man’s nod, he tips a hand to indicate that he should go first. Cullen narrows his eyes at her, trying to figure out whether he remembers her or not.

“Ah, yes, I’ll have the Special, cooked medium, with a side of chips and a cup of coffee, please,” Adam tells the waitress.

“And you, Ser?” the waitress turns toward Cullen, her pen poised over her notepad. He decides he doesn’t remember her after all.

“I’ll have the same,” he says with a quick nod. He gathers their menus and hands them over to her. She takes them and turns away without another word, sashaying off to the kitchen.

“So where were we? Ah yes, my news.” He pretends to buff a button on his shirt. ”You’re looking at the new Knight-Colonel of Kirkwall’s Templars.”

“You bloody blighter!” Cullen slaps the table, and a huge grin splits his face. “Right, then. Congratulations are in order.” He raises a hand to call their waitress back to their table. “Two of your best ales, please,” he orders when she returns, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Right away, Ser,” she responds and leaves to get their drinks

Adam looks uncomfortable. ”I – um, I hope it doesn’t feel like I am rubbing it in or anything. I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he says after the waitress lays two steins full of foamy ale before them on the table.

“Nonsense,” Cullen rejoins, raising his mug in a toast. “To the best bloody Knight-Colonel in the Templar Order!” 

Adam smiles a bit sheepishly, but there is still pride in his eyes as he knocks his mug against Cullen’s before taking a long drink. Then his expression turns serious. “You know, mate, I couldn’t believe it when I heard about you.  You always had it together. I always thought you’d make it into the upper brass before I did.”

Cullen takes a sip of his ale and lets out a derisive laugh. “Yes, I had it so together I strangled myself,” he looks down at the table and centers his drink on its damp napkin. “So tell me, did Patrick and Joe get their promotions? They were up for Knight-Captaincies, both of them, were they not?”

Adam sighs and pauses, pursing his lips. “Both of them got tossed for lyrium abuse last month. Since, ah — what happened — they’ve been performing random inspections. “

“Maker,” Cullen rasps, his throat suddenly dry. He lifts his mug and takes a long drink, dismayed to find that his hands are trembling. He clenches them into fists, and his expression tightens. “Do you know what’s become of them? Their families?”

“I’m told that they’ve been sent to rehab like you were.  As to their families, I’m not sure.” Adam shrugs a shoulder. “Pat had them in family housing on base, but I think Joe was renting a house off-base for him and his family.”

Cullen grits his teeth. “They were good men and excellent Templars.” _Like Samson. Like Pat. Like Joe. Like me._ “Don’t you think it’s time the Order came to terms with the lyrium problem in the ranks?”

His friend is looking at him as if he’s grown two heads. At that moment, looking at Adam, Cullen can see himself — so sure he has all the answers and unwilling to face the truth.

 “What lyrium problem? I’ve used it too, you know,” Adam denies, leaning forward, his hands on the table in front of him as his eyes bore into Cullen’s. “But I never let it get control of me. I’ve completely stopped now. I’m sorry for how things turned out for you, but dude, you should have known better than to use it like that. What happened to you man? Why did you let it go out of control?”

Irritation flares inside him and his jaw muscles tighten. All his years in the Order. All of his sacrifices. The times he went days without sleep to complete back-to-back missions,  operating on naught but caffeine and lyrium.  He meets Adam’s gaze and growls “you think it was just me?”

Adam averts his gaze and looks a little discomfited “Well no, but you must realize that others have made it work. It worked for me.”

Cullen sighs. Is this what he sounded like when Samson came to his office years ago? Embarrassment and weariness pull at him, and he’s glad when the waitress reappears with their food.

“Two specials,” she announces, setting their plates down in front of them clumsily. “I’ll be back with your coffees.”

“Let’s hope the food is better than the service,” Cullen quips, eager to turn the conversation to lighter subjects.

Adam picks up his burger and lets out a relieved laugh. “Yes, let’s hope. So, tell me, what are you doing at the docks?”

Cullen relaxes and digs into his meal as he explains his job duties to his friend and the two men spend the rest of their lunch sharing inconsequential details of their lives.

When they are finished eating and having their coffees, they both stand and exit the booth. Cullen reaches out a hand to Adam, and the other man pulls him into a hug.

“Take care of yourself, mate,” Adam whispers hoarsely, releasing him and stepping back, his eyes a little moist.

Cullen frowns, a little unsettled by this display of emotion. “You, too, and don’t be a stranger. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

“Of course.”

Cullen watches his friend go, wondering if he’s as in control of his lyrium use as he thinks.

* * *

 

The wind ruffles his hair as he exits his truck in the Kirkwall Cemetery parking lot. Inhaling sharply, he makes his way along the path winding through the immaculate green lawns strewn with gravestones, clutching a bouquet of roses in one hand. He hadn’t been able to attend his team’s funerals because he was detoxing at the time, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to come here after he had gotten out. But coming here today feels…right.

When he comes to the section where his men are buried, he steps off the path and gingerly picks his way to the row of plots still bearing the rectangular lines of recently re-sodded earth. He stands in front of them and bows his head, holding the bouquet in his clasped hands. He scans the names on the shiny new granite plaques at the top of each plot and drops to his knees, the spray of roses falling to the ground. A weight presses down on his chest, and his eyes burn with unshed tears.

Kyle Schachter

Reynard Reza

Dex Caldwell

Sean Morey

He remembers their smiling faces, eagerly looking to him for leadership. All of them so young, with the better part of their lives ahead of them. Kyle was going to finish out his term with the Templars and go back to school to earn his degree in marine biology. Reynard and Dex were career soldiers with bright futures in the Order, and Sean was going to muster out and take a job in the civil service.

His throat tightens, and he lifts his face to the soft, perfect blue sky, dotted with high cirrus clouds. In his head, a storm gathers. He shuts his eyes, ignoring the warmth of the sun on his closed lids. Maker, why? Why take them? Why not him? It was his error — his weakness — that caused their deaths. How many times had he asked himself why it was that he was the one left alive?

Anguish and anger roil together in his gut, making his stomach hurt. A tear drops from his lashes and splashes on the plastic-wrapped bouquet resting at his knees.  More tears come, and he allows them to fall without a sound, letting the grief he’d been running from for months overtake him. He remains where he is until the tree shadows lengthen, shading him from the westering sun.  With rough fingers, he swipes away the remaining moisture from his eyes and gets to his feet, his knees popping.

Grunting, he stoops to pick up the discarded bouquet, wincing as his muscles protest. Blowing out a breath, he begins peeling back the plastic. Leaning over each plot, he lays a single rose upon the headstones. Murmuring a soft goodbye to each of his men, he turns and follows the remaining daylight back to his truck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://windysuspirations.tumblr.com) if that's your thing.
> 
>  


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